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FIRES OF FATE 


OTHER BOOKS 

BY WILBUR FINLEY FAULEY 


ADVENTURE 

SEEING EUROPE ON SIXTY DOLLARS 
FICTION 

JENNY BE GOOD 
QUEENIE 


^Social Satires 









THE RAFT WAS FAST APPROACHING THE FALLS-THE MOUTH OF HELL 




FIRES OF FATE 

A Mystery Novel 

BY 

WILBUR FINLEY FAULEY 


Frontispiece by 

FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON 


METROPOLITAN BOOK SERVICE 
NEW YORK 







Copyright, 1923, by 
METROPOLITAN BOOK SERVICE 

All rights reserved 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©CLA69678 9 

MAR 12 ’23 

| 



TO MY 

THREE NIECES, 

WANNA, RAMONA AND DOROTHY 
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATED. 








* 









s 






p 






I 







CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

The Face in the Crowd . 




PAGE 

1 

II 

Meadowmere .... 




13 

III 

What the Storm Brought 




26 

IV 

The Week-End Party 




36 

y 

A Gilded Lie .... 




52 

VI 

The Breath of Suspicion . 




61 

VII 

Around the Corner . 




76 

VIII 

Fires of Fate .... 




93 

IX 

The Face Reappears . 




115 

X 

Burning Eyes .... 




128 

XI 

A New Life .... 




139 

XII 

The House of the Wolf Killer 


149 

XIII 

The Conflict .... 




160 

XIV 

The Mouth of Hell . 




175 

XV 

The Lifting Veil . 




188 

XVI 

A Voice from the Past . 




204 

XVII 

Dead or Alive? 




221 

XVIII 

A Gleam in the Darkness 




231 

XIX 

Haunting Memories . 




239 

XX 

Sinking Sands .... 




252 

XXI 

The Avenger of Blood . 




265 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXII A World of Glass. 277 

XXIII Out of the Night. 285 

XXIV The Black Flood. 293 

XXV *The Confession .300 

XXVI The Dawn. 306 


* Chapter XXV contains the full solution of the murder mystery, 
including the three paragraphs that are written backwards. 







PREFATORY NOTE 


This tale is purely an invention. The charac¬ 
ters are wholly imaginary, and not portraits of 
actual persons. Many of the locations are real 
in so far as they help to carry out the realities of 
the plot. The book is largely concerned, in the 
thought back of it, with revelations in the psycho¬ 
logical world, particularly with regard to mental 
suggestion, and the phenomena of hypnotism. 






















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FIRES OF FATE 


CHAPTER I 

THE FACE IN THE CROWD 

T WO fashionably gowned women were dis¬ 
cussing the bride. 

“I’ll wager she has a past as long as 
Fifth Avenue,” observed the first. 

“My dear, she has nothing—not even a past,” 
the second commented. 

The whispered conversation died away as 
Honoria Karley, the bridegroom’s aunt, and his 
nearest blood kin, swept down the aisle of the 
little cloistered chantry of St. Jude’s like a 
mediaeval queen on her way to the headsman’s 
block; and her manner of walking seemed to 
convey to all of her assembled friends that her 
nephew’s choice of a bride was most distasteful 
to her. 

The occasion marked the marriage of Anne 
1 


2 


FIRES OF FATE 


Hambleton, a girl of the people, to Grenville 
Karley, a monied aristocrat. It was one of those 
hurried nuptials that followed the war, and on 
the face of things, a very quiet and exclusive 
function. 

There was a wicked hope growing in the heart 
of the aunt that before the ceremony was over 
her nephew would realize his great mistake. 
Honoria was a type of aristocrat becoming 
almost extinct in New York, with its horde of 
newly rich in their diamonds and motors, and 
she regarded this union as nothing short of a social 
catastrophe. The idol of her heart, the last prop 
of the house of Karley, had chosen his bride from 
among the common herd. 

Now the young woman he should have mar¬ 
ried was sitting in the pew directly across the 
aisle, the beautiful and ultra-fashionable Iris 
Sanderson. At least, Iris was the aunt’s choice; 
and just to observe how the poor girl was holding 
up under the ordeal, Honoria gave her a nervous 
side glance, but Iris sat with perfectly immo¬ 
bile countenance and thin white lips. 

Still, no one in the congregation realized just 
what it all meant to Honoria, this mating of a 
son of the elect with a daughter of the Philistines, 


THE FACE IN THE CROWD 3 


this democratizing of the house of Karley. She 
had fought so hard to prevent the union; and 
now the only weapon left for her was the social 
superiority of the guests, all a close ring of 
people, her intimates. She knew their sense 
of innate importance, their power to wither with 
cold-blooded uppishness. If this did not humble 
the bride, surely it would shake her nephew’s 
pride, the Karley family’s most vulnerable point. 

Several pews back of the aunt sat Lady Daw¬ 
kins, a rheumatic and somewhat deaf dowager, 
recently transplanted from England to her 
native soil, and her escort, Burke Puggins, a 
dandy in society in mid-Victorian days. They 
also had been discussing the bride sotto voce; and 
Puggins had just whispered to the dowager: 
“In taking a wife and in buying a second-hand 
automobile, shut your eyes and commit yourself 
to God,” when a fussy old dame in the next pew 
turned directly upon them, and said, “Sh!” 

A moment later the organ prelude began to 
echo through the recessed gloom of the chantry, 
which was separated from the main body of the 
church by a huge stone colonnade. This afforded 
Puggins and Lady Dawkins the opportunity to 
continue their conversation, which had been cut 


FIRES OF FATE 


short back in 1877, when she jilted Puggins and 
married an Englishman of title, an unusual inci¬ 
dent in international society in those days. 

“You were a horrid boy,” Lady Dawkins was 
saying. “Do you remember when you kissed me 
behind the door?” 

“Behind the ear?” Puggins whispered back, 
being a little deaf on the left side. “By gad, I 
remember it well.” And his watery eyes lighted 
up in dimmed but pleasant retrospect. 

The dowager lady let it go at that; behind the 
door or ear, it did not matter now. She sighed. 

“What is more depressing than these dull 
middle-aged hats?” she commented as she viewed 
the backs of the assembly through her tortoise¬ 
shell lorgnette. 

“Eh?” asked Puggins, cupping his ear with 
his hand. 

Lady Dawkins implied mutely that the cere¬ 
mony had begun, craning her neck to get an 
unobstructed view of the bride. And it was not 
long before the voice of the officiating clergyman 
seemed to reverberate with these words: 

“. . . Forasmuch as Grenville Karley and 
Anne Hambleton have consented together in 
holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before 


THE FACE IN THE CROWD 5 

God and this company, and thereto have given 
and pledged their troth, each to the other, and 
have declared the same by giving and receiving 
a ring, and by joining hands; I pronounce that 
they are man and wife. . . . ” 

The voice died away in a sepulchral whisper 
in the far recesses of the church, where a young 
woman was kneeling before the shrine of the 
golden cross. It was the stranger’s first intima¬ 
tion that a marriage ceremony was in progress 
in the chantry, so long and so deeply had she 
been engrossed in prayer. She arose and slipped 
quietly into a pew. 

Grenville was tall and rather wiry, possessing 
that clean-cut physical fitness which comes from 
constant devotion to sports. But the hard lines 
upon his face—and he was only thirty-five, be¬ 
trayed his proclivities to enervating vice and 
luxury. Withal, a proud, reticent young man; 
selfish, licentious, and, oftentimes, cruel. 

Honoria, frigid and formal, stood beside her 
nephew and his bride, with the sanctified air of 
martyrdom, during the impromptu reception that 
followed the ceremony. Lady Dawkins and 
Puggins were waiting their turn to go forward. 
Puggins was squinting at the bride over his 


FIRES OF FATE 


pince-nez. “A deuced pretty young woman, by 
gad!” he commented. 

“But she’s a Miss Nobody from nowhere,” 
returned the dowager lady; “as poor as Job’s 
turkey, and not an ancestor to her name. So 
many of these war-time romances have proved 
to be a failure.” 

“In time of war, physical force settles every¬ 
thing,” said Puggins. “As the Bible says, after 
any engagement among the Canaanites, there 
was ‘to every man a damsel or two.’ ” 

“Her beauty seems to be her only asset,” Lady 
Dawkins went on placidly; “a decidedly bru¬ 
nette type.” 

“But very quiet and reserved, don’t you 
think?” 

The dowager lady challenged him. “ Still 
waters run deep, you know.” 

Puggins took another squint at the bride. 
“She is very dark, isn’t she? Looks to me like 
a beautiful Indian princess.” 

Whereupon Lady Dawkins imparted some 
startling information to her escort. “Honoria 
tells me that the bride’s father’s first wife was a 
full-blooded American Indian, but that her own 
mother was a white woman.” 



THE FACE IN THE CROWD 7 

“Rather remote, eh?” remarked Puggins. 

“Oh, she’s just as white as you or me,” returned 
Lady Dawkins, “but she seems to have inherited 
this strain of race, in coloring at least. Nothing 
to hold against her, you know. All women have 
something of the savage in their make-up, a 
strain of the primitive.” She stopped short. 
“Who is that man shaking hands with the 
bride?” 

“Oh, that’s Rodney Webb, editor of that 
clever political weekly called Truth” replied 
Puggins. 

“I don’t think I ever met him,” the dowager 
lady remarked, as she took a more intimate view 
of the man through her lorgnette. She saw that 
he was a man of forty-odd, with a slim figure, 
almost waspish, his every movement delicate and 
fastidious. She also noted that his eyes were 
greenish, and deep set. 

“There’s a brilliant mind for you,” Puggins 
continued. “In fact, Webb is New York’s most 
famous dilettante. He goes everywhere, is 
accepted by everybody, and yet society fears 
him, for he wields his pen like a sword.” 

“I know the type,” purred Lady Dawkins. 


8 


FIRES OF FATE 


“He tells the naked truth about everybody 
except himself.” 

“He’s a whited sepulchre,” said Puggins 
grimly. 

“Not filled with dead men’s bones, I hope?” 

“No; with the souls of women he has black¬ 
ened.” 

“Oh, how intensely interesting,” declared the 
dowager lady. 

It was a blustery April day outside, but the 
formalities of this hastily arranged marriage 
were no sooner over than the sunshine flooded 
the church. The strange young woman who had 
come in to pray was now standing in the chantry 
entrance, being drawn there by natural curiosity 
to look upon the bride and bridegroom. She 
stood a little apart from a small group of un¬ 
invited guests, mostly women, who break uncere¬ 
moniously into all smart church weddings, her 
slim figure intercepting a beam of sunlight, and 
projecting a black shadow upon the chantry 
floor. 

The bridal couple had started down the aisle, 
running the gauntlet of cold, steely eyes and 
uplifted lorgnettes, raised like instruments of 
chastisement—so Anne felt. 


THE FACE IN THE CROWD 9 

She clutched her husband’s arm, and tried to 
keep her eyes upon the floor. Would she never 
come out of this depth of cloistered shadows, the 
cold scrutiny of eyes; this sitting-in-judgment 
attitude that depressed her? 

Then came the shadow upon the reddish stone 
floor—the shadow of a woman, so distinct that 
Anne involuntarily checked herself from step¬ 
ping upon it, as if it had been something alive. 
She raised her eyes, and gave a quick glance over 
her shoulder, to the left. She noticed the young 
woman standing by the pilaster in the passage¬ 
way—the woman who cast the shadow. Their 
eyes met. She felt the flash from the stranger’s 
eyes as though it had been a spark. Somehow 
she felt her muscles relax; her overwrought 
nerves grew passive. 

What did it mean, this face in the crowd? It 
was the only friendly face, the only smiling eyes, 
in the assembly. In the fleeting glance she 
realized that the young woman bore a striking 
resemblance to herself; she noted the dark com¬ 
plexion, almost like an Indian’s. Then the 
thought flashed in her mind’s pan: “Here is 
someone at least who understands me—who 
pities me.” 


10 


FIRES OF FATE 


Emerging from the church, Anne breathed 
freer, happier, in the open air. She stepped into 
the monogrammed limousine that was soon to 
whisk her and her new-found happiness to the 
railroad terminal. 

As the motor car rolled noiselessly through 
the maze of the traffic, she leaned rather wearily 
against Grenville. They had plenty of time in 
which to catch the five-thirty for Lenox. 

“Well, thank God, that’s over with!” Gren¬ 
ville was the first to break the silence. 

By right of possession he should have been 
at this moment the happiest of bridegrooms. 
Instead he faced a fact as cold as steel, as pitiless 
as hungry wolves—his marriage had been a great 
mistake. 

The strategy of his adored Aunt Honoria had 
done its deadly work, although he had walked 
into the trap blindly. In staging this cold, criti¬ 
cal wedding assembly she had made him realize 
as never before that he alone was a living part of 
this social sphere into which he had been born; 
its traditions and unwritten laws could never be 
shared in common with this young woman he had 
taken for his wife. Her likes and dislikes, her 


THE FACE IN THE CROWD 11 


mode of living, were utterly foreign to his own. 
She was a daughter of the Philistines, and she 
would ever be a stranger in a strange land—his 
land. 

He seemed to be suddenly stripped of all the 
illusions that had attended his first attachment 
to the girl. Across the screen of his troubled 
consciousness flashed the picture of their first 
meeting, at one of the lesser embarkation ports 
in Virginia, the threshold to a thousand battle¬ 
fields, to suffering, to hate, and grim death. 

On the train Anne huddled close to him. He 
was a man of few words, and she had become 
accustomed to his long silences. Somehow she 
felt infinitely happy just to be snuggled up to 
him. She felt relieved that the fuss and con¬ 
fusion of the wedding ceremony were over. 
While the veiled insolence of the aunt, and the 
poison of tongues and glances, had not escaped 
her entirely, she felt this was no time to reason 
it out, or allow it to interfere with her great 
happiness. 

. . . That night she wondered why her mind 
did not respond, as she meant it should, to that 
definite joy of living that was now her own. 


12 FIRES OF FATE 

Then came the remembrance of the face in 
the crowd, the sparking of eyes, like the flashing 
of a wireless message between two ships that pass 
in the night. 


CHAPTER II 


AT MEAD OWMERE 

I T was a phenomenon of nature, perhaps, 
that Anne had inherited the dark beauty 
and graceful lines of an Indian woman, and 
something of the characteristics of that race, 
from her father, whose first wife had been a full- 
blooded Seneca woman. No doubt her type was 
transmitted by the father, who, subconsciously, 
reproduced the image of his first wife profoundly 
impressed upon his memory. 

Anne’s mother, a white woman, had an eleva¬ 
tion of mind far superior to her station in life, 
and after her husband’s death she had managed 
to keep her little family of two—daughter and 
son—together by taking in sewing. Anne was 
just thirteen when her mother became an invalid, 
so she had to seek employment; and until she 
was twenty-four years old she clerked in a book¬ 
shop, while her brother worked in the shipyards. 

13 


14 


FIRES OF FATE 


By nature studious, she took advantage of this 
dull, drab existence as a book clerk and practi¬ 
cally gained her education from the bookshelves. 
Monotony and care developed the suppression 
of her true self. She had a very quiet disposition, 
but inside of her was that growing, insistent 
demand of youth for a chance to be young, to 
play, to kiss, to find its mate, and when mated, 
to rear its young. 

Then came the world war, and the breaking 
up of family ties. By two swift strokes of fate, 
she had been bereft of home and kindred. 

Her first meeting with Grenville, then an 
officer in the Quartermaster’s Corps, was as a 
canteen worker, when she had access to the em¬ 
barkation piers. One day she disobeyed orders 
by breaking through the ranks, and it was Gren¬ 
ville who, in his official capacity, seized her 
roughly by the arm, and swore at her. Instead 
of resenting his brutality, she had smiled up at 
him. 

The extremes of their generation and opposite 
temperaments had touched, and flashed into 
instant recognition and affection through the 
instinct of blood. Grenville had been an aristo¬ 
cratic recluse most of his life, devoting himself 


AT MEADOWMERE 


15 


chiefly to sports and to women who poison the 
souls of men, and leaving the interests of his vast 
inherited estate to menials. Under the glamor 
of war and the uncertainty of life, he experienced 
the tug of the paternal. His race would die out 
if he did not have a son. Men of his own social 
stamp were marrying these clean, robust girls 
of common parentage. Of all the young women 
he had met, Anne seemed the most capable of 
stepping up to his plane in life. 

To Anne, marriage with an officer meant 
escape from all the drabness of life; and there 
was just enough romance in her relations with 
Grenville to blind her to the fact that she was 
more in love with love than with the man. 

As his wife, she had only been allowed brief 
glimpses of his world; a strange world to Anne, 
where birth and tradition had their money value. 
Fleeting glimpses had shown her, however, that 
it was a world where masks, more or less trans¬ 
parent, were worn by husbands and wives. 

She had spent most of her married life at 
Meadowmere, Grenville’s country place on Long 
Island, which he had been keeping open as his 
year-round residence since entering the political 
arena; a picturesque old pile, built on Eliza- 


16 FIRES OF FATE 

bethan lines, and commanding a distant view of 
the sea. 

Home ties play an important role in political 
campaigns, but Anne somehow had been a bit 
slow in warming up to this fact, such was the 
deep groove of martyrdom into which she had 
allowed her general life to run. 

Always she had feared the day when she would 
be endured only for the sake of appearances. 
That day had come and passed. She had brought 
a weakling child into the world, a child upon 
whose shoulders was to rest the heritage of the 
Karleys; and Grenville seemed to hate her for 
it, just as she was beginning to hate this cold 
comfort of luxury when so much was denied her. 

Also she had tried, and most ineffectually, to 
come up to the aunt’s standard. Nothing hurt 
her quite so much as the knowledge that Honoria 
still held prior claim upon Grenville; and she 
could not help feeling, in the steely face of things, 
that the aunt had been the controlling factor in 
the termination of his marital relations with her. 

After all, what did it matter? She was blessed 
with a son. The province of the male in repro¬ 
duction is but slight and brief. She—woman— 
was the race. Out of her blood and bones and 


AT MEADOWMERE 


17 


vital powers she had evolved, fashioned and nur¬ 
tured, a son. This child of hers was part of the 
mother; it had been warmed by her warmth, fed 
by her blood. Could she not always content her¬ 
self with this rich virtue of supreme motherhood? 

Yet at times there would flame up something 
of the restlessness inherent within her; a raging 
protest against circumstance. Was it true, 
after all, that woman’s nature is to be false 
except to a man, and man’s nature to be true ex¬ 
cept to a woman? How much longer could she 
hold Grenville as the inspiration of sacred emo¬ 
tions? His selfishness was almost a mania; he 
lived entirely for himself—affable and generous 
in the presence of strangers—mean, contempti¬ 
ble and grasping at his own fireside. She hated 
herself at times for her weakness. She hated her¬ 
self for sitting at Meadowmere, day in and day 
out, waiting, watching. 

Her tragic retrospect was broken by Gren¬ 
ville’s voice on the telephone. He was telephon¬ 
ing from town as usual; and as usual he had 
political appointments to keep him in town for 
the greater part of the week. But he would 
surely be home on Friday; and he had invited 
some friends down for the week-end. 


18 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Lady Dawkins and your old admirer, Mr. 
Puggins. They’ll come by train, and I’m bring¬ 
ing Miss Sanderson down in the car.” 

“Too bad your Aunt Honoria isn’t coming,” 
said Anne. “She hasn’t seen Gwennie since last 
spring. I’m sure she would find him improved 
since then.” 

“I’m afraid Aunt has her sleeves rolled up for 
the political battle. She’s opened her house, and 
is planning all sorts of things, a sort of social 
campaign, to get votes, she says. Awfully nice 
of her, too, considering this unseasonably hot 
weather.” 

“Perhaps she might if you insist,” said Anne. 
“Odd numbers in guests, you know, are rather 
awkward when it comes to cards.” 

“Oh, yes; Rodney Webb is coming. That’ll 
even things up. He’s been fishing for a look-in 
at our establishment ever since that week-end at 

Southampton. You remember-at Mrs. Tre- 

vort’s?” 

“I remember,” replied Anne, with a little tired 
sigh. 

“I’m not particularly fond of the man myself,” 
Grenville put in, “but he can do me a great 
service politically in Truth . We must be nice 



AT MEADOWMERE 


19 


to him. He ’phoned me this morning that he’s 
going down to Syosset for a couple of days, and 
he will motor over from there.” 

A moment of silence ensued, then Anne said: 
“Isn’t there something I can do to help you— 
politically? I hear Mrs. de Peyster is to stump 
for her husband.” 

Grenville answered readily. “Oh, but old de 
P. hasn’t a ghost of a show against a man who 
has a wife and child at home.” 

This was the most cheerful thing she had heard 
in many days, and it thrilled her. 1STo longer was 
she isolated from the procession of events. The 
fact that she and Gwennie were now a part of 
her husband’s scheme for political aggrandize¬ 
ment seemed to fire her with a passion to help him 
in his career. 

Perhaps they had reached the bend in the 
road. Around the turn she could even sense a 
new start in their married existence, with minds 
companioned. She would have photographs made 
of herself, clasping Gwennie to her breast. 
In her mind’s eye she could see the picture in 
thousands of homes, symbolic of a man’s castle. 

Then Rodney Webb bobbed up in her mind. 
Through him she might render a great service to 


20 


FIRES OF FATE 


Grenville, and make certain his victory at the 
polls; a service she could undertake perhaps 
without her husband’s knowledge. Why not try 
to beat the aunt at her own game of seeking 
votes? She would turn the week-end party into 
a little field of campaign. 

At this juncture. Iris Sanderson loomed up 
suddenly in her thoughts. Perhaps the aunt 
was sending her down to Meadowmere to inves¬ 
tigate her marital infelicity after the long drawn 
out silence of the summer. What was to hinder 
her from fooling, from dazzling dear Iris? In¬ 
stead of an ugly chrysalis, with a tear-stained 
face, always the sign of neglected wifehood, she 
would emerge as a butterfly. 

Thus new hopes, designs, gave wings to her 
preparedness. 

Dawn found her more alive than ever to the 
exigencies of the moment. The day was sultry— 
not a leaf seemed stirring. After a long walk 
along the country lanes, she took a plunge in the 
pool. That night she brushed up on political 
education, ransacking the library. She sat in the 
living room, with books piled knee-high about 
her, and in the quietness of the evening she read 
and absorbed things political until her head fairly 


AT MEADOWMERE 21 

ached. Then out of the quietude came a small 
voice. 

Startled, she ran to the foot of the staircase, 
and there, at the head of the stairs, in his 
“nightie,” stood Gwennie. 

“Muwer,” the child called weakly; and held 
out his little hands appealingly. 

With a choking cry she stumbled up the stairs, 
and knelt on the steps below him. He had 
walked from the nursery unassisted, as if through 
some miracle he had been suddenly made strong. 
She called for the nurse. 

The child, a wan smile on his thin lips, took a 
step forward. “Gwennie walk, muwer,” he 
lisped proudly. 

“Blessed be God!” 

Anne, as she spoke, reached up and took him 
in her arms. The nurse came running down 
from the upper story, alarmed at first, then 
rejoicing with the mother. It was the first time 
the child had walked in months. Just now he 
was gazing with wondering eyes at the com¬ 
motion he had caused. His eyes seemed to say: 
“Why make such a fuss when a young gentle¬ 
man starts out for a walk?” He toddled away 


22 FIRES OF FATE 

towards the nursery, but soon sank down with 
a tired sigh. 

Anne gathered him up in her arms, and 
walked back and forth, with his head upon her 
shoulder, until he slept. The child had deep, 
golden rings of hair, being fair haired and fair 
skinned like the father. There was not a trace 
in features or coloring of the mother who bore 
him. It was as if Anne had been only the sus¬ 
ceptible and impressionable mould that had 
nursed to life the reincarnation of the Karley 
race. 

Her first impulse was to call up Grenville and 
tell him the glad news. Then she recalled that 
his aunt was entertaining at dinner, and at nine 
o’clock Grenville would probably be engrossed 
in politics. But she did call up Dr. John Jex, 
her friend and physician, who lived on a neigh¬ 
boring estate, and whose comfort and sympathy 
was ever like a tonic. She felt too keyed up to 
go to bed, so elected to sit a while and read. As 
Peterson was closing up for the night, she 
thought she heard a low rumble of thunder. Or 
was it the hollow sound the little wooden bridge, 
down at the turn of the main road, gave out at 
the passing of speeding motor cars? 


AT MEADOWMERE 


23 


She listened as the butler’s footfalls died away 
in the long hall that led to the servants’ quar¬ 
ters in the east wing of the house. The nursery, 
where Gwennie and the nurse were now sleeping 
soundly, was peculiarly isolated in the west wing. 
She resumed her reading. A half hour passed, 
then she raised her eyes instinctively from her 
book and listened. Everything had grown 
ghastly still. The light from the reading lamp 
fell in soft radiance about her; the living room, 
with its characteristic Elizabethan details, 
beamed ceiling, rough walls and wide plank 
floor, had merged into a background of deep 
shadows. 

Then, with alarming suddenness, the storm 
broke in all its fury. Wind and thunder seemed 
to shake the old house to its foundation stones; 
the rain beat against the windows, and the soot 
came down the great chimney. 

Anne walked to a small window that was 
raised slightly, looking out upon a protected 
corner of the house. She liked to listen to 
the rising and falling tones of the storm, like the 
crescendo and diminuendo of a symphony orches¬ 
tra. And it was during a momentary lull that 
she thought she heard the rumble of the wooden 


24 


FIRES OF FATE 


bridge, immediately followed by a cry of distress. 
The bridge marked a dangerous curve in the 
road. Perhaps there had been an accident. 

Five minutes passed. The storm continued 
unabated. Hearing no further sound of voices 
she went back to her reading. But she could not 
read. The clock in the hall struck one. Sleep 
seemed farther removed than ever. To occupy 
herself she tiptoed upstairs to the nursery, to 
satisfy herself that the storm had not awakened 
Gwennie. 

She was coming downstairs when she heard a 
knock at the front door. Curious and unafraid, 
she unbolted and opened the inner door. Just 
beyond, through the meshes of the securely fas¬ 
tened screen door, the face of a man appeared, 
faintly illumined. 

“Sorry to intrude upon your hospitality at this 
hour, but IVe been in a motor smashup. It was 
all I could do to drag myself up here through 
the storm.” 

She did not recognize the voice, although it 
sounded rather familiar. One of the neighbors, 
perhaps. “Please come in.” 

The visitor limped into the hallway, and as 
Anne closed the door against the force of the 


AT MEADOWMERE 


25 


wind, he removed his felt hat, dripping wet, and 
shook his water-proof coat like a spaniel. He 
stood revealed in the dim glow of the hall light. 

“Oh, Mr. Webb!” she exclaimed in surprise. 

Rodney looked at her with a curious smile, 
laving the moisture from his classic-cut features. 
“I’m equally surprised,” he said. “I had no 
idea this was Meadowmere. I saw a light at the 
window, and—well, any port in a storm, they 
say.” 

Anne started for the living room. ‘Til call 
Peterson,” she said. 

“Please, don’t bother,” urged Rodney. 


CHAPTER III 


WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT 

ANNE set about with fearless sincerity to 
y % make the after-midnight visitor comfort¬ 
able. 

“You must think me a scoundrel,” said Rod¬ 
ney, “for this unholy intrusion.’’ He sat down 
on a Gothic chair in the hall, for he was still 
suffering from the shock. 

Anne regarding him curiously for a moment. 
Sensing her anxiety, he rose. “The shock will 
soon pass,” he said. 

“Let me call Peterson, please, or get you some 
brandy.” 

Rodney remonstrated politely, and with a 
quiet smile, produced a silver flask from his hip 
pocket. He took a swallow or two. “I do feel 
a bit damp,” he resumed. “Still, the chauffeur 
should be back within an hour. He’s making his 
way to the village for another conveyance.” 

Anne lit the fire in the living room, while Rod- 
26 


WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT 27 


ney drew up a chair and started smoking. When 
he saw her making for the stairs he called after 
her. She paused. 

“Your prescription is working beautifully— 
an easy chair, a cigarette, blazing logs. Really, 
what more could an unwelcome patient desire?” 

Anne retraced her steps. “Unwelcome?” she 
queried. 

“What else am I to infer when you run away 
from me?” He pretended to pout. “After all, 
this is very comfy. A wonderfully homey nest 
you have.” He glanced around the room. “Too 
bad that husband of yours is kept tied up with 
business and politics in town so much of the 
time.” 

“It is very thoughtful of you to admit that 
I have a husband,” Anne came back at him 
through smiles. “I also have a son, and I was 
just going upstairs to look after him.” 

“A thousand pardons.” Rodney bowed around 
the side of the chair; and after Anne had gone 
he amused himself by blowing rings of smoke 
ceilingward, while the firelight shone on his im¬ 
mobile face like the red glow of sunset on chiseled 
marble that shrines dead hopes. 

Meantime, Anne had gone into Grenville’s 


28 


FIRES OF FATE 


den at the head of the stairs to telephone, closing 
the door behind her. Five minutes passed before 
she could arouse Central, who came back with 
the disquieting information that on account 
of the storm, all telephonic communication with 
New York had been discontinued. But the delay 
would only be temporary. 

Upon her return to the living room, she paused 
at the foot of the stairs to suppress a yawn. 

Rodney must have had eyes in the back of his 
head, for he said very promptly: “Fm afraid 
our little country mouse grows sleepy.” 

Anne ignored the remark. Walking to the 
fireplace, she began to stir the embers under 
the logs with a brass-handled poker. She was 
feeling more tolerant now. Rodney was a bach¬ 
elor, and, as such, he had probably been pam¬ 
pered by women, and could not help becoming 
peeved when they did not immediately respond 
to his wants. 

There was a moment’s silence. Then he re¬ 
marked abruptly: “Did anyone ever by chance 
tell you that you are a beautiful woman?” 

Anne turned swiftly, and for a brief moment 
her eyes blazed and there were ashen shadows 


WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT 29 


around her mouth. Her fingers clutched the 
poker tenaciously. 

Rodney, flecking the ashes from his cigarette, 
laughed outright. “By Jove, it’s the first time 
a pretty woman ever threatened to brain me 
with a poker for paying her a compliment.” 

Anne gave a long, drawn-out sigh, relaxed, 
and restored the poker to its place. “I’m sorry 
if I alarmed you,” she said apologetically. “It 
wasn’t the compliment. In fact, I wasn’t think¬ 
ing of you at all. I was thinking of men in 
general, and the world they create for their 
women to live in.” 

“I quite agree with you on that score,” Rod¬ 
ney smiled cynically. “Most men are rotters.” 

“I’m not asking for sympathy,” said Anne; 
adding: “I’ve read that wedded life even among 
savages is without a grain of love.” 

“I’m afraid I had a little glimpse of the sav¬ 
age in you,” drawled Rodney, “as you stood 
there brandishing that poker like a tomahawk. 
Of course you didn’t exactly brandish, but the 
idea was there. A charming picture, just 
the same—a savage in fire-gilt—the armed and 
panoplied Minerva, matching her prowess and 
wisdom against man’s.” 


30 


FIRES OF FATE 


“I dare say I did look ridiculous.” She 
flushed sensitively as she sat down upon a ladder- 
back chair by the fireplace. 4 ‘As a child I always 
walked with my head up,” she went on, “listen¬ 
ing to the birds and looking at the treetops, like 
an Indian.” 

“And as a woman you’re looking for the ideal 
in man,” Rodney interposed. “But you’ll never 
find it. As the little printer’s devil in my shop 
would say, ‘There ain’t no sich animal.’ ” 

The rain was still beating against the window 
panes, and the wind soughing down the chimney. 

“Still, every man has within himself the most 
profound reverence for what is highest in woman¬ 
hood,” Rodney went on. “But reverence is weak 
and will not stand the test. Man is not strong 
enough to fight against the realities of his nature. 
That’s one reason I never married, and so saved 
some good woman like yourself the misery and 
humiliation in the knowledge that comes after 
marriage that a high moral state does not exist 
among men.” 

Anne laughed lightly. 

“I told that to a bunch of fashionable women 
the other day at the Metropolis Club,” Rodney 
resumed, “and they were horrified. I’ve been 


WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT 31 


getting some very rude notes from their hus¬ 
bands. But it pays to tell the truth.” 

“I suppose you find it increases the circulation 
of your weekly newspaper,” Anne rejoined 
casually. 

“Oh, the deep intuitiveness of woman!” Rod¬ 
ney groaned good-naturedly, trying out his stiff 
knee joints. 

“Of course you’re going to say some very nice 
things about Grenville during the coming cam¬ 
paign.” Anne was manoeuvring. 

Rodney glanced at her rather quizzically. Up 
to this moment he had not had the slightest inten¬ 
tion of supporting Grenville. In fact, he was 
planning to say some very nasty things about this 
political upstart. But the potent argument of 
soft dark eyes and the sheen of hair overruled his 
fixed intentions. 

“If he puts up a good fight for reform, the 
right sort of people will support him, I’m sure.” 

“That sounds promising,” smiled Anne; and 
for the first time she let him catch the clear, full 
light of her eyes. 

The clock struck the quarter hour, a reminder 
to Anne that she was expecting a telephone call. 
She rose, evincing some restlessness, a state of 


32 FIRES OF FATE 

mind that soon communicated itself to Rodney. 

“You know, I don’t like to hear clocks strike,” 
he commented; “it depresses me.” 

Anne faced him squarely. “What about me?” 
she asked. “Here I am, my husband in town, 
the servants all asleep, trying to entertain a 
brilliant editor who has never taken the trouble 
to explain what really happened to bring him to 
my door at this hour of the morning.” 

“Oh, but I mean to explain everything to your 
husband,” said Rodney; “everything perfectly 
unavoidable and easily explained.” 

“I’ll save you the trouble of all that,” Anne 
put in airily. “I’ve already put in my call, and 
he shall be told everything before I turn in for 
the night.” 

“Yes; of course.” Rodney seemed to be 
floundering hopelessly. 

“Grenville is a sticker on details, so I must 
know something of what happened,” said Anne 
succinctly. 

“Well, all I know is that the storm overtook 
us, and in taking a curve we skidded.” Rodney 
rose as he spoke, punctuating his remark with 
a groan. “When the chauffeur fished me out of 
the motor car, it was hanging perilously over the 


WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT 33 


edge of a wooden bridge, and one wheel crushed. 
I sent him on to the village, and then found my 
way up here.” At that moment there was a 
crunch of gravel outside, and the honk of a horn. 
“There he is now.” 

Anne followed Rodney into the hall. “I’m so 
glad you’re coming to Grenville’s little week-end 
party,” she said; “and I hope you’ll be quite 
recovered by then.” 

“You’ve been awfully nice to me, Mrs. Kar- 
ley,” said Rodney. “And so sweet of you to 
shoulder the responsibility of telling your hus¬ 
band.” He gave a little sardonic grin. “I sha’n’t 
say a word.” He stopped short as Anne put her 
hand quickly and apologetically to her mouth to 
stifle another yawn. 

He gazed at her in dismay, while the thought 
flashed through his mind: “Damn these good 
women!” 

“Grenville would have been pained, I’m sure, 
if I had not extended our hospitality to one in 
distress.” 

“Then I’m not to mention it?” 

“Why should you?” Anne, to further expe¬ 
dite his departure, handed him his hat. 

Rodney glanced at her incredulously, and 


34 


FIRES OF FATE 


with a very polite bow and renewed thanks, 
passed out into the wind-swept night. He had 
no sooner gone than the telephone bell rang. 

“Well, who is it? Who is it?” 

Anne recognized Honoria’s voice with a qualm. 
Why had Grenville not answered? She re¬ 
sponded civilly, but with just a shade of defiant 
asperity in her voice. 

“I’ve been in bed and asleep for the last two 
hours,” snapped Honoria. “Oh, it’s wicked of 
you to get me up.” 

“Is it raining in town?” Anne fumbled. 

“How ridiculous. How should I know 
whether it’s raining?” 

“We’ve had a terrible storm down here, and— 
now I would like to speak with Grenville.” 

“I wouldn’t think of disturbing him.” 

“But it’s something he should know,” Anne 
persisted. “I want him to know before he comes 
home.” 

With keen intuition the aunt sensed something 
out of the ordinary. Her voice changed as if by 
magic. “What is it, my dear?” 

“It’s about a visitor—someone who came dur¬ 
ing the storm, and—he’s just gone.” 


WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT 35 


Honoria’s voice in reply dropped almost to a 
whisper. “Who was it?” 

“Rodney Webb,” Anne replied with perfect 
naivete. “He was in a motor smashup, and 
stayed here over an hour.” 

“That’s nothing to worry about.” 

“But I feel that Grenville should be told.” 

“And he shall be told, the first thing in the 
morning.” 

“Please,” begged Anne. “Still, I would much 
prefer telling him myself.” 

“Much better to accept my intervention,” 
Honoria suggested mildly. “I shall simply tell 
him the facts without advancing any opinion. 
And my advice would be to let him take the 
initiative in speaking of it. If he does question 
you, just say that you promised me to enter into 
no discussion.” 

Anne was silent for a moment—silent in the 
white heat of anger. And when she finally spoke 
there was no response. 

Honoria had tactfully hung up. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


R ODNEY was standing by a table, thumb¬ 
ing his way casually through Sporting 
Life, although he kept looking expect¬ 
antly towards the stairs; and when Anne did 
appear, what he saw was a figure as lithe and as 
alert as a black panther, a pair of slender, ex¬ 
quisitely moulded arms, bare to the shoulders, 
an uplifted oval face, the perfect curves of the 
slightly aquiline nose, the bow-shaped arc of 
scarlet lips. 

Following close behind Anne were Grenville 
and Puggins, who had just finished a game of 
billiards. Anne paused at the bottom of the 
stairs, and as Grenville passed her, she linked 
her arm in his with quick and effective diplo¬ 
macy. It was the chance of battle, and a brave 
woman does not count her foes. Thus they 
walked into the living room. The effect was 
rather electrical, especially on Iris. 

36 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


37 


Lady Dawkins raised a hand from the depths 
of a Queen Anne chair, in which she had been 
almost lost to view, being a very slight and 
fragile old lady, and drawing Anne down to 
whispering distance, said: “My dear, don't you 
know it's very unfashionable to show affection 
for one’s husband?” Then she tittered behind 
her lace fan. 

Naturally the conversation between the men 
drifted into politics. They were discussing 
Grenville’s rival for the Senate. “All sorts of 
lies are being published about de Peyster,” Pug- 
gins was saying, “about his home life, his happy 
domesticity, when in reality he’s nothing but a 
fancier, dog or chicken, I can’t remember which.” 
He turned to Rodney. “Seems to me I read 
something to that effect in your publication 
to-day.” 

“Shouldn’t wonder,” replied Rodney lightly. 

“No doubt but that the pen is mightier than 
the bass drum in politics,” Grenville remarked; 
adding, with a glance at Rodney: “What I 
thoroughly dislike is the dishonest partisan 
policy of some of our newspapers.” 

“In other words,” returned Rodney coldly, 
“you don’t mind political mud-throwing so long 


38 


FIRES OF FATE 


as there are no sharp-pointed stones, or truths, 
concealed in the mud?” 

“I hate lying and cheating in any form,” 
snapped Grenville. 

Puggins, meanwhile, had been standing in a 
deep quandary. Suddenly he snapped his fingers 
and said: “X have it now.” 

“Please don’t keep us in suspense,” Rodney 
put in a little sarcastically. 

“I’m afraid my memory is going like my teeth 
and my hair,” rejoined Puggins. “But I’ve just 
recalled the paragraph in question, and it was in 
Truth . I read it on the train, and it was to this 
effect, that John de Peyster was a dog fancier 
and Grenville Karley a chicken fancier, and— 
and the voters could take their choice. Rather 
pointed, eh?” He gave Grenville a gentle jab 
in the ribs. 

Grenville’s face for a moment was an expres¬ 
sionless mask. 

“A little nonsense now and then should be 
relished by the best of politicians,” said Rodney 
by way of amends. 

Grenville met his gaze unflinchingly. “So 
that’s your estimate of me?” 

Puggins realized that he had put his foot in it. 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


39 


Then Rodney spoke. “As a matter of fact, 
Mr. Karley, I tried to have that particular para¬ 
graph ‘killed/ but when I got in touch with my 
office, the weekly had gone to press.” 

“What caused you to change your mind?” 
asked Puggins doggedly. He strongly disliked 
the man, but had tact enough to conceal it. 

“A woman’s prerogative, perhaps,” returned 
Rodney. Then he turned squarely on Grenville. 
“It was only yesterday that I decided to support 
your candidacy. If I had not, I certainly would 
not have accepted your hospitality. I believe of 
the two candidates, you are the best fitted to 
represent the people. A man who is a good 
husband and a loving father has much more to 
recommend him than one who has devoted his 
life principally to poodles.” 

Grenville felt the sting of the barbed sally, but 
he passed it off with a polite: “Thanks, very 
much.” It was the veiled insinuation of his moral 
looseness that hurt him most. Pampered all his 
life, he had no capacity to take punishment. Had 
Rodney been prying into his private affairs? 

The announcement that dinner was served 
came like oil on troubled waters, but the tense¬ 
ness of the situation was not wholly spent. 


40 


FIRES OF FATE 


Puggins assisted Lady Dawkins to rise from her 
deep-seated chair. Rodney walked to Anne’s 
side, who nodded amiably when he offered his 
arm. 

“You are radiant, wonderful, to-night,” he 
said quietly. “And to my great surprise you 
seem to be in love with that errant husband of 
yours. He doesn’t seem to mind a bit what hap¬ 
pened last night, or rather this morning.” He 
gazed at her slantwise, and questioningly, but 
Anne passed it off lightly. “My husband is my 
least trouble,” she said. “He never asks ques¬ 
tions, and we never have scenes.” 

The dinner proceeded informally. Rodney 
managed to tell Anne of her husband’s pique 
over the stinging paragraph in Truth, his 
attempt to have it “killed,” and why. 

“My chance meeting with you caused me to 
change my mind,” he said. “I realized that in 
wounding your husband’s feelings I would injure 
you—perhaps shatter your illusions, the illusions 
of a woman who loves most, and is controlled 
absolutely by one who loves least. Kindly accept 
my apologies.” 

Anne smiled. “I feel I can count on you now 
to help Grenville. Really he has a wonderful 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 41 

side to his character. We’ll talk it over on the 
sly. I’m determined to make good in this, and 
I have some data to give you to be used for his 
political benefit.” 

While the party was having coffee after din¬ 
ner in the living room, Puggins took a turn at 
the player-piano. Anne was having a little 
heart-to-heart talk with the dowager lady. 

“I remember having my fortune told when I 
was a young girl,” she was saying, “and the fact 
was disclosed that I would be very rich or very 
poor, and very happy or very unhappy. There 
was to be no medium in my destiny.” 

“We are all fated and cannot avoid what hap¬ 
pens,” rejoined Lady Dawkins. 

“The fortune-teller also said that I was marked 
by fate for adventure—that I could never accept 
ordinary life as my share.” 

“Oh, that’s poppycock, my dear,” smiled the 
dowager. “Everyday life is an adventure. Mere 
living, a risk.” 

“But I do want to live—to live!” Anne 
clasped her hands together as if making a pas¬ 
sionate entreaty to Fate. “Anything to break 
the monotony of the average sort of life, which 


42 


FIRES OF FATE 


I thought my marriage would do; but it has 
not. The flash of a pistol, a dagger, anything 
to break up the commonplace level of the neg¬ 
lected wife at home—a fire, an airplane falling 
from the skies, a thunderbolt—anything would 

dor 

“You are not easily satisfied, I’m afraid,” re¬ 
marked Lady Dawkins, rather aghast at the out¬ 
break. “And for pity’s sake, don’t let Grenville 
hear you go on like this. Sounds very much like 
a wife shrieking for freedom.” 

Anne’s face softened in expression. She 
glanced over at Puggins at the piano. “Grieg’s 
music always affects me that way,” she faltered. 
“The first time I went to the opera I never slept 
a wink the whole night. It was ‘L’Amore dei 
Tre Re.’ You remember the old blind father 
who strangles his daughter-in-law?” 

“I never go to the opera for that very reason,” 
rejoined the dowager lady; “they do such ter¬ 
rible things. Nov to the films, where all they do 
is shoot and kill. So I stay at home, and knit.” 

“How I envy your contentment,” Anne 
sighed. 

“It comes only with age,” Lady Dawkins 
purred, picking up a lost stitch. Then she grew 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


43 


quite confidential. “You know, I was just like 
you at your age. Six months after my marriage 
to Dawkins I was bored to death. Once, while 
we were at Eastbourne, a wicked thought came 
into my mind: to push him off the cliff, and run 
away with a handsome young East Indian 
Prince who had been flirting with me at the 
hotel.” 

“But you didn’t?” laughed Anne. 

“No; we strolled down to the pavilion for tea, 
and I contented myself by picking up little 
round pebbles and throwing them at poor Daw¬ 
kins.” 

By this time the men had returned from the 
terrace; and somehow the conversation drifted 
off toward psychic phenomena. 

Rodney, who delved in psychology in many of 
his writings and lectures, led off with the declara¬ 
tion that out of the remnants of witchcraft and 
black art, scientific psychical research was prov¬ 
ing conclusively that a large percentage of the 
manifestations formerly attributed to super¬ 
natural agencies, was due to perfectly natural 
laws and causes. 

“We all radiate untold power,” he said; “even 


44 


FIRES OF FATE 


our will is physical energy and exerts a definite 
strength, just as light waves do.” 

“I read only recently,” said Iris, “that the 
human will is fearful and strong enough to move 
mountains. It can be registered and weighed 
like dynamite.” 

“Quite so,” Rodney agreed. “Indeed, it has 
been proved that some of the great crimes are 
psychological crimes; that is, a man commits a 
crime without realizing what he is doing, under 
the force of another man’s will. This is the black 
magic of hypnotism, which can be operated either 
for good or for evil.” 

Then Anne spoke. “Dr. Jex, my good friend 
and physician, has always insisted that I possess 
a psychic temperament. He often says in jest 
that subconsciously I’m an Indian, having inher¬ 
ited the strain from the passionate love my father 
had for his first wife, a young Indian woman.” 
She paused. Iris was listening with cynical tol¬ 
erance, and Grenville was in a state of ennui. 
“Perhaps I’m boring you,” she added. 

“Do go on,” urged Lady Dawkins; “although 
I’ve heard that foolish Indian yarn before.” 

Anne smiled, and continued. “Well, to prove 
that I am a fit subject for this hypnosis state, 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


45 


as Mr. Webb calls it, I’ll tell you how I was 
placed under the absolute control of a man at 
Newburyport. One night the local Y. M. C. A. 
staged an entertainment for the war relief 
workers. A hypnotist was on the program, a 
mountebank I thought him to be. But he got 
me under his control, and as long as it lasted I 
was the hit of the show, serving sandwiches and 
coffee to an empty row of chairs, and so on. I 
was furious, of course, when I came out of the 
spell, and somehow I couldn’t get the man out 
of my mind. That was before I met Grenville.” 

“Let’s hope he doesn’t prey on your mind,” 
Puggins bleated. 

“Never, never,” laughed Anne. The oppor¬ 
tunity had come to declare herself, and she did 
it graciously, but boldly. “I’m really the most 
contented woman in the world,” she declared 
impulsively. “I have a wonderful husband, 
everything a woman wants.” Her voice rang 
musically, but at the finish it seemed to twang like 
a stretched string, keyed up to the breaking 
point. 

An awkward silence ensued. Rodney was the 
first to break it. “What was that you started 
to tell me at dinner, about a strange young 


46 FIRES OF FATE 

woman at St. Jude’s, on the day of your mar¬ 
riage?” 

“More silly rot,” Grenville broke in; “months, 
years, have passed, and yet Mrs. Karley keeps 
harping on a particular face she saw in the crowd 
that day.” 

“I’ll never forget it as long as I live,” said 
Anne wistfully. “I can’t describe the young 
woman, except that I felt that she resembled me 
greatly. She was my physical double, if there 
is such a thing. But she seemed to understand 
me as no one else did that day. Sometimes, in 
the night, I can see her black, piercing eyes.” 

“Can one imagine such rubbish?” Grenville 
commented cynically. 

“Oh, but Mrs. Karley is quite right,” spoke up 
Rodney. “It was no doubt one of those rare 
instances of natural attunement between two 
complete strangers. All of us have our physical 
and our spiritual doubles. Sometimes they fol¬ 
low us around like our shadow. In children’s 
story books they are called angels of mercy. In 
the New Scriptures we read of the Good Samari¬ 
tan. Along the highway of life, in the crowd, 
there’s always somebody who will give us a lift, 
or guard, even defend us against danger.” 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


47 


“How thrilling,” remarked Lady Dawkins. 
Turning to Anne, she said: “Wouldn’t it be 
exciting to run across your double again some 
day?” 

“Stranger things have happened,” spoke up 
Rodney. “We are just beginning to scratch the 
surface of the unknown.” 

General conversation ceased. Anne went up 
to the nursery after saying: “I’m sure I heard 
Gwennie calling me. I have this premonition, 
sometimes when fast asleep.” 

“She thinks she does,” Grenville added with 
a sardonic smile after she had gone upstairs. 

“A mother’s instinct, and perfectly natural,” 
remarked Lady Dawkins, who realized now that 
the breach between husband and wife was grow¬ 
ing wider and wider; and her sympathy was with 
Anne. 

Upstairs Anne was having it out with herself. 
Had she really saved the day for herself? She 
doubted one moment, and hoped passionately 
the next. As man and wife she and Grenville 
were one, and yet they were worlds apart. One 
half of anything could not go on living by itself. 

Around eleven o’clock the opportunity seemed 
ripe for Anne to place in Rodney’s keeping, and 


48 


FIRES OF FATE 


on the quiet, some political literature she felt 
certain would further Grenville’s chances for 
election. The document, in her husband’s own 
handwriting, was titled “The Fight for Political 
Reform.” She thought it very clever, although 
for some unexplained reason Grenville had 
pigeon-holed it. 

She had read the article through several times 
since its inception, and knew it by the robin’s 
egg blue paper cover. But she did not know that 
Grenville, immediately after his arrival that 
afternoon, had removed the document, and had 
heedlessly left another in its place, also with a 
robin’s egg blue cover. 

And it was this latter substitute document that 
she handed to Rodney after she had located him 
on the terrace by the fire of his cigarette. She 
was so sure that it was the right one that she had 
not even taken the trouble to confirm it. 

“This will be our little secret,” she said as 
Rodney pocketed the manuscript without even 
glancing at it. “I’m sure Grenville has forgotten 
all about it, and he will be so surprised when he 
sees it in print. I feel confident it will win him 
many votes.” 

“I must say, I admire you for your unshaken 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 49 

adherence to a cause, your faith in the future,” 
said Rodney. 

“The future belongs to our son,” responded 
Anne seriously, “and I want to prepare the way 
for him. In helping Grenville in his ambitions 
to become something more than a rich idler, I 
feel that Gwennie, when he grows up, will reap 
the benefit. If you must know, I consider my 
son my first duty. And I must look ahead.” 

Anne paused, suppressing a smile. 

“What’s the joke?” asked Rodney. 

“Your shadow on the window blind,” re¬ 
turned Anne, “struck me as being very funny. 
Just as you are standing now, it looks exactly 
like Punchinello.” 

They were standing by a low French window, 
partly closed, and in the light of an electric 
wrought-iron lantern on the terrace wall, Rod¬ 
ney’s profile showed grotesque upon the white 
blind. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Anne in an 
apologetic tone. So saying, she lifted her arm 
and produced upon the blind the graceful shadow 
of a long-necked goose, which took a snip at the 
elongated shadow of Rodney’s nose. 

“What a child you are!” he murmured. 


50 


FIRES OF FATE 

“Please don’t scold me,” she returned gayly; 
then she became as suddenly serious. “You will 
publish that manuscript, won’t you? And you 
will continue to say nice things about Gren¬ 
ville?” 

Rodney shrugged his shoulders. “Anything 
for the good of the cause,” he replied, rather 
enigmatically. 

They parted. Rodney went for a turn in the 
garden, while Anne stole away quietly to her 
room. No sooner had she passed upstairs when 
Lady Dawkins rose suddenly from the depths 
of the Queen Anne chair. Peterson was just 
entering the living room. 

“I must have fallen asleep,” said the dowager 
lady with a nervous glance towards the terrace. 
And as she walked towards the hall, she con¬ 
tinued: “I’m afraid I’m in for one of my sleep¬ 
less nights.” 

“Perhaps it’s the weather, milady,” ventured 
Peterson, cringing. “Surprising weather we’re 
having. Hot one day, and cold the next.” 

“Very surprising things happen these days,” 
Lady Dawkins pronounced dreamily as she 
started upstairs, slowly, step by step; “very 
surprising!” 


THE WEEK-END PARTY 


51 


As a matter of truth, Lady Dawkins had not 
been asleep in the chair; at least, not for the 
last quarter of an hour. She had seen enough 
through the window that opened on the terrace 
to make her intensely curious to know more. 
Being a woman of the world and of wide experi¬ 
ence, her suspicions were at once aroused. 




CHAPTER V 


A GILDED LIE 

B ROOKSIDE was one of those terribly 
fashionable country clubs, and it was old 
enough to have traditions. There the 
same families come and go, year in and year out. 
It is as if a play had been going on for many 
years without a change in the east; and like all 
smart clubs, it was a perfect piece of artificiality. 

As a member of the club’s polo contingent, 
Grenville was in for a strenuous afternoon at the 
practise games, staged on Saturday afternoons 
for the entertainment of the club members and 
their guests. Accompanied by Iris, he had driven 
to the club in his twin-six roadster shortly after 
luncheon. The rest of the party tagged behind 
in the limousine. 

Lady Dawkins and Puggins occupied the com¬ 
fortable rear seat while Anne and Rodney sat 
on the little uncomfortable seats in front, and 
facing each other. The seating arrangement 

52 


A GILDED LIE 


53 


afforded Lady Dawkins plenty of opportunity 
to watch them, and to see if their knees touched. 
But the two seemed immovable as plaster cast 
figures, and greatly to their discredit, for the 
dowager lady felt sure now they were suppress¬ 
ing something. Anne kept looking ahead as the 
motor car sped onward; and just now was look¬ 
ing over Rodney’s shoulder, and commenting 
enthusiastically, as they flew past a dairy farm, 
on what a pretty picture the cows made standing 
knee-deep in a pond. 

“I’m afraid you’ll never grow up, my dear,” 
sighed Lady Dawkins. “It would not surprise 
me in the least to hear you say, ‘See cow!’ or 
‘See horse!’ ” 

“It’s Gwennie who has kept me young,” 
smiled Anne in return. “So much of the time 
I have no one to talk to except him. It’s a won¬ 
der I speak grown-up sense at all.” 

Her thoughts seemed to travel with the motor 
car. She wondered what was around the corner. 
How much longer could this cold protection with¬ 
out love keep up? Suppose that all this luxury 
of living should fade away; suppose that the wolf 
should come and sit at her door? All about her 
was the silver and sapphire of a sun-swept world. 


54 


FIRES OF FATE 


yet she knew that black night was just below the 
horizon. She shuddered. 

When they reached the club enclosure, the 
game had begun. The gathering was purely 
informal. 

Among the first to welcome Anne was Dr. 
Jex, a rosy-cheeked, white-haired man of ad¬ 
vanced years, who enjoyed a large and fashion¬ 
able following. He had the cast of a patriarch, 
and fairly radiated good cheer and optimism; 
there was something paternal about him to Anne, 
something old-fashioned and substantial that put 
him above and apart from the cold and super¬ 
ficial members of his set, in which she always felt 
herself a stranger. He was not only her physi¬ 
cian, but her friend; in his presence she felt 
unmasked and unashamed. 

They had tea together on the porch of the 
clubhouse during the second period. Grenville 
was in splendid form, his hitting accurate and 
his long drives spectacular; his rooters were 
looking to him to save his side from defeat. 

Somehow the subject of divorce came up, and 
Anne was surprised to hear the doctor say that 
the average man’s devotion to his wife rarely 


A GILDED LIE 55 

fails until the wife fails in her devotion, a fact 
proved by statistics. 

“But there must be exceptions to the rule,” 
she said, glad of the chance to sound the doctor. 

“There are exceptions,” returned Dr. Jex; 
“one is known as sex antagonism.” He paused. 
“Shall I go on?” 

“Please do.” 

Dr. Jex often prescribed candy-coated pills, 
and he seized the opportunity now to disguise 
in a pleasant nectar of words what he really 
thought was the matter with Grenville. “This 
antagonism is the most common cause of marital 
unhappiness and divorce in society,” he ex¬ 
plained, “although it rarely becomes a matter 
of court record, for it is too elusive and indefinite. 
It emanates from overbreeding, which creates 
supersensitiveness.” 

Anne was curious to know more. “How can 
any woman be sure she is in love with her hus¬ 
band?” she asked. 

“Does any woman ever know her own mind?” 
he inquired with a smile. He was a shrewd 
analyst of women, and had long admired Anne’s 
honesty and fidelity; his personal interest in her 
was tinged with deep sympathy. 


56 


FIRES OF FATE 


Anne regarded him curiously, and then she 
said: “I know this much: I made an agree¬ 
ment and I mean to stick to it.” 

“A woman loyal to her marriage vows in the 
face of unfulfilment, to my mind, is one of the 
most sanctified things on earth,” the doctor de¬ 
clared impulsively. “Many women in society are 
living this gilded lie.” 

“What can a woman do?” Anne’s lips quiv¬ 
ered as she spoke. 

“Trust to your instinct,” was the ready re¬ 
sponse, “and some day you will find yourself.” 

“I’ve never been my true self as long back as 
I can remember,” said Anne. “I often feel that 
down deep inside of me is an entirely distinct 
and separate person.” 

“You have a pronounced psychic tempera¬ 
ment,” said the doctor, “and you possess two 
beings, conscious and subconscious, very distinct 
from each other. I must warn you against any 
undue influence, and, please, do not accept sug¬ 
gestions from strangers. They might prove 
hurtful.” 

“I’ve always dreamed of—of love that was 
savage,” Anne confessed without a qualm. 

“Too bad you are kept housed up at Meadow- 


A GILDED LIE 57 

mere,” the doctor remarked; “you should have a 
safety valve.” 

“Oh, but I have.” And she told him of her 
plans to help Grenville during the coming cam¬ 
paign. Incidentally, she spoke of her friendship 
with Rodney; and how she meant to use him. 

Dr. Jex knew of Rodney’s reputation, so he 
said lightly: “Beware of new and untried in¬ 
fluences.” 

Anne flashed back a smile. “Not an influence 
really; just a means to an end.” But she did not 
go into details, and said nothing in regard to her 
little conspiracy with Rodney about the publica¬ 
tion of the document she had given him secretly. 

“You may win Grenville back after all,” the 
doctor commented hopefully. “He may not be 
such a cad as I think. I’ll give him the benefit 
of the doubt, at any rate. Too bad I shan’t be 
here to watch the victorious results at the polls 
and at Meadowmere.” 

Just then the sun passed under a cloud. 
“You’re not going to leave us?” Anne’s lips 
trembled. “What will become of Gwennie?” 

Dr. Jex broke the news gently. He was to 
take his first real vacation in ten years, and bury 
himself in some quiet spot in Europe for six 


58 


FIRES OF FATE 


months or more. As a widower, he had no home 
ties, and as a physician of sixty odd years, he 
felt he owed it to himself and for the prolonga¬ 
tion of his life, to cut himself off entirely from 
everything. As for Gwennie, he considered the 
child on the way to complete recovery, and his 
case would be transferred to capable hands. 

“I know I’m selfish,” said Anne; “and I 
shouldn’t really be unhappy with this wonderful 
possession, a son. If Gwennie only had his 
health, I could live in a hovel with only a rag to 
my back, and be perfectly contented.” 

“And it’s this beautiful mother love that will 
see him through,” the doctor declared. 

At this juncture, Lady Dawkins, walking with 
a cane, broke away from the companionship of 
Rodney and Puggins, and came over to the tea 
table. 

“You don’t mean to tell me, my dear, that 
you’ve been calmly sipping tea with Dr. Jex 
while everybody has been going simply wild over 
Grenville? He really won the game.” 

Anne glanced around helplessly when Dr. Jex 
came to her rescue, suggesting that she had bet¬ 
ter run along and meet her husband. By this 
time, Grenville was approaching the clubhouse, 


A GILDED LIE 


59 


surrounded by a coterie of admirers. Anne broke 
through the ranks. “Lm so glad,” she said; and 
took hold of his arm. 

A few moments later, as they were assembled 
upon the porch, Anne proposed a toast. When 
Lady Dawkins gave her a despairing look, she 
knew she had bungled. Still, glasses were raised. 
Iris alone refused to respond. 

“It’s absolutely silly.” Iris turned on her heel 
and walked off. 

After the little group had melted away, Anne 
handed Grenville a second glass of cooling 
punch. He drained it at a gulp for his throat 
was parched. Then he said, under his breath: 
“Why make a fool of yourself?” 

Anne felt the sting of his remark, but she 
did not resent it. Grenville went on: “Every¬ 
body knows that you haven’t been paying the 
slightest attention to the game. While Miss 
Sanderson and the others were rooting for me, 
you were sitting here gossiping with that old 
geezer,” indicating Dr. Jex. “One can’t blame 
her for walking away. You’ve been acting in 
extremely bad taste, if I must say it.” 

Iris strolled up languidly. Anne advanced 


60 


FIRES OF FATE 


quickly to her side. “Please don’t think me a 
simpleton,” she said earnestly. 

Iris shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps I’m 
the one who made a fool of herself?” She glanced 
over at Grenville. “Just so I did not embarrass 
your husband.” 

“Oh, let’s forget it,” said Grenville petu¬ 
lantly. 

Anne did not seem to mind as much as she 
thought she would. Was she, too, lapsing into 
indifference? Often she had watched a live 
ember leap out of the fireplace and lie on the 
hearthstone, until it became cold and lifeless. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 

I T was a night such as romancers would have 
made to order. The air was charged with 
the scents of early autumnal flowers. A 
huge moon was rising, exactly as if in response 
to an order; and the sea, under the moonlight, 
began its dance of shimmering silver. 

Lady Dawkins and Puggins occupied a stone 
bench on the east terrace overlooking the garden. 
The light from the open door fell in a silvery 
pool at their feet. 

“You know we are both too old to enjoy sit¬ 
ting in the moonlight,” said the dowager lady 
finally. 

“It’s a crime to grow old,” returned Puggins 
with a saucy air. 

Lady Dawkins sighed heavily. “To think that 
we once wandered in a beautiful garden like 
this, in the pale moonlight, and all the world a 

rosy dream. Ah, me!” Then she added, teas- 
61 


62 


FIRES OF FATE 

ingly: “Do you remember when you kissed me 
behind the rosebush, and against my will? I do 
believe you would do it again—if you had the 
chance.” 

“By Gad, I would,” declared Puggins impul¬ 
sively, just as a twinge of lumbago caught him 
in the small of the back, and he groaned. 

The dowager lady kept glancing suspiciously 
down into the garden. They could hear voices. 

Puggins glanced at her quizzically. “Tell me, 
what’s up,” he whispered coaxingly. 

“I suspect everything, yet I know nothing,” 
was Lady Dawkins’s enigmatic response. 

“Has it gone so far as that?” Puggins inquired 
in surprise, stroking his chin. 

Lady Dawkins leaned over. “I will tell you 
this much,” she said in a confidential tone. 

“Well,” Puggins urged expectantly. 

“Everything is crinkum-crankum!” With this 
sally, Lady Dawkins rose, and walked into the 
house, Puggins following sheepishly behind her. 

Anne and Rodney had paired off under the 
pergola, while Iris had joined Grenville for a 
turn round the garden pool. By this time, Rod¬ 
ney’s uncanny intuitiveness had pierced the mask 
of the chaste enchantress, Iris. He glanced at 


THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 63 


the unsuspecting wife, the beauty of whose up¬ 
turned face seemed somehow to share in the bar¬ 
baric wonder and romance of the moonlight. To 
him there was romance only in the woman unwon. 

Unwittingly Anne had placed in his hands the 
strongest instrument he could ever hope to find 
for striking out her mushroom politician. Evi¬ 
dently by mistake, she had given him the wrong 
document. It was in Grenville’s handwriting, 
and contained a lurid description of his personal 
encounter with vice in New York; if published, 
it would not only compromise him, but blast his 
political and social career. 

For the complete fruition of Rodney’s plans it 
would be necessary for him to leave Meadowmere 
as the avowed enemy of his host; and the sooner, 
the better. Still he must needs await the turn of 
chance. Sufficient to the hour was the enthrall¬ 
ing nearness of the woman desired, who, to all 
intents, had forgotten his presence in rapt ad¬ 
miration for the moon. 

“Mooning, eh?” Rodney gave a little chuckle 
as he spoke. 

Anne came back to earth. “I must have been 
a thousand miles away in thought,” she said. 
And when she turned upon Rodney she gave a 


64 


FIRES OF FATE 


perceptible start. In the vagueness of moonshine 
and shadow, his sleek evening dress had taken on 
a strange lustre; his long tapering fingers, white 
as wax against the black, the semblance of claws. 
The shadow of a vine swaying in the breeze 
seemed to distort his face. 

“Oh, I say!” Rodney protested, shifting his 
position. 

“Please don’t mind,” said Anne, “but in the 
dim lights and shadows, and the way you were 
sitting, you reminded me of Mephistopheles— 
the one I saw at the opera.” 

“Well, I like that,” Rodney commented 
sourly. 

“Oh, but I admire the devil,” Anne added 
swiftly; “not that I approve of his mission in this 
world, or his enmity to God, but his cleverness, 
his ingenuousness. Just imagine, a being, as 
supreme in evil as God is supreme in goodness. 
Here, there, everywhere—mischievously ener¬ 
getic, the tempter of mankind.” 

Anne’s guilelessness struck Rodney as being 
almost ludicrous; and her amazing logic about 
the devil affected him like a dash of cold water 
in his face. He rose and suggested a turn round 
the arbor. She linked her arm in his, which made 


THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 65 


him feel that he was actually in the devil’s boots 
and walking with a saint. At the same time, he 
realized that evil had not as yet entered into her 
personal experience; or if it had, it had not been 
powerful enough to imprint itself upon the sen¬ 
sitized plate of her senses. Inwardly he felt 
grieved that all this passionate moonlight was 
going to waste. 

The fact that he still limped slightly caused 
Anne to resurrect the subject of his after mid¬ 
night visit. When he pressed her as to what 
Grenville had said, she laughingly responded that 
everything had been explained to her husband’s 
complete satisfaction. 

“What perfect felicity to dwell in a household 
where no questions are asked and no objections 
raised on such trivialities,” Rodney remarked. 

Anne replied: “It is my nature to travel along 
the lines of least resistance. Although I often 
act on the spur of the moment, I dislike being 
questioned as to the sincerity of my motive.” 

“That’s easily explained,” said Rodney with 
a sardonic grin: “Every woman thinks she’s 
dead right in everything she undertakes when 
often she knows she’s dead wrong.” 

“At any rate, it will explain why I gave you 


66 


FIRES OF FATE 


that document without first seeking Grenville’s 
permission,” returned Anne. “Perhaps I was 
rash, or overzealous, which should make you all 
the more agreeable to use it to the best advan¬ 
tage.” 

“I’ve only glanced through it hastily.” Rod¬ 
ney thought best to let it go at that. 

“I’m sure you won’t fail me,” said Anne; “no 
matter what happens.” 

Rodney glanced at her inquiringly. “What 
could possibly happen?” 

“Nothing definite that I know of,” replied 
Anne; “but I always have a dread in my heart 
of what is around the comer. My faith in every¬ 
thing and everybody is so sincere I fear to have 
it broken. I dread having my dreams despoiled. 
I have closed my eyes to the suffering I have 
already endured, so my optimism persists. Still, 
some day, I shall have to come face to face with 
what is just around the corner.” 

“You may be very much surprised to find real 
happiness just around the corner,” Rodney de¬ 
clared with warmth. “Every woman has the 
right to live her own life—to love-” 

“Oh, there you are!” 

The voice of Lady Dawkins broke in abruptly. 



THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 67 


She was standing at the edge of the terrace, a 
scarf thrown over her head; had been there for 
several moments, watching Anne and Rodney as 
they strolled slowly up the path from the arbor, 
and straining both ears. 

“I couldn’t imagine what had become of you,” 
she said to Anne as they crossed the terrace. 
“Iris went to her room long ago with a splitting 
headache. Puggins has been asleep in his chair 
for the last half hour, and Grenville has gone to 
bed, utterly fagged out, he said, after the game.” 

The dowager’s little glance of suspicion in his 
direction did not escape Rodney, and he wel¬ 
comed it. When, finally, he entered the house, 
he found everybody apparently had gone to bed. 
Peterson was rummaging through a drawer in 
the living room. 

“I’m looking for a deck of cards, sir,” the 
butler explained. “Mr. Karley always keeps a 
pack in this reading table, but they have dis¬ 
appeared. Lady Dawkins was asking for them 
this evening.” 

“I can loan you a deck,” Rodney offered. 

“If you would be so kind, sir,” returned Peter¬ 
son. “I’ve looked everywhere for one.” 

Rodney slipped quietly upstairs to his room. 


68 FIRES OF FATE 

and was back before the butler had finished clos¬ 
ing up for the night. “I always carry an extra 
deck,” he said as he handed the cards to Peter¬ 
son. “You needn't bother about returning 
them.” 

“Thanks very much, sir.” 

Rodney was halfway up the stairs when he 
turned and said: “Oh, Peterson!” As the but¬ 
ler came to the foot of the stairs, he continued, 
in a lowered tone: “Not necessary to mention 
where you got them.” 

“I shan’t say a word, sir,” returned the but¬ 
ler, “for it gets me out of a hole. Lady Dawkins 
insisted that one of the servants-” 

“Good night,” Rodney interposed airily. 

An hour later and the big house stood strangely 
still, in the ghostly stillness of moonlight. But 
sleep had not come to Grenville. He was living 
through again and again that brief but passion¬ 
ate quarter of an hour spent in the garden, alone 
with Iris, when she seemed suddenly transformed 
from the coldness of marble into the pulsing of 
life. In moonlight madness they had reached 
the fuller and deeper understanding that comes 
with enfolding arms and the touch of hot lips. 
The hopelessness of their love had not dimmed 



THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 69 


that momentary flash, yet both were cognizant 
of the obstacles in their path to ultimate fulfil¬ 
ment. But the woman, dominant in passion, 
knew a way out. So Iris had spilled a drop of 
poison in Grenville’s ear—suspicion. 

Sunday was never a bore to Anne. Regu¬ 
larly she attended services in the little picturesque 
church on the outskirts of the nearby village; it 
seemed to break up the monotony of her lone¬ 
liness at Meadowmere. She had a nodding ac¬ 
quaintance with most of the gentry who attended, 
and a smile for the village folk. Upon this par¬ 
ticular Sunday, Lady Dawkins and Puggins 
accompanied her, and at their own volition. 

Nothing out of the ordinary happened. After 
service Puggins took a little walk while the 
dowager lady discussed the weather and politics 
with the heads of various families. Puggins, it 
seems, had a mania for visiting cemeteries, and 
took delight in reading epitaphs. On the way 
home, he kept harping on several unique ones he 
had found, until Lady Dawkins lost her patience, 
and called him a morbid old fool. And when she 
asked him point blank whether he went to church 
to listen to the sermon and to pray, or to count 


70 


FIRES OF FATE 


the tombstones and read epitaphs, he became red 
in the face, and refused to answer. 

Anne rushed to the dear man's relief. “Of 
course, we both go to church to pray," she re¬ 
marked smilingly. 

“I trust you pray not to be led into temp¬ 
tation," Lady Dawkins returned rather abruptly. 

Anne laughed. “There’s only one thing I’m 
afraid of, and that’s the black of night." 

“I’m sure there’s more danger in moonlight 
nights, my dear." 

The dowager lady’s remark had a barbed point, 
but Anne did not feel the thrust. She was 
cheerful for the rest of the day. Her spirits 
lagged a bit after dinner, so she joined Puggins 
on the terrace. He was a delightfully simple 
soul after all, and his witticisms acted as a sort 
of tonic. 

A game of cards was in progress in the living 
room. Anne could see from where she sat that 
the players were fast becoming reckless and ex¬ 
cited. 

Lady Dawkins, who had often tried her luck 
at Monte Carlo, showed her age by a certain 
fussiness at cards. When she took a trick she 
would cackle like a parrot; but when she lost, 


THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 71 

she would snap at the others like an irritated 
magpie. 

The game had now reached a hundred dollar 
limit. Grenville was a plunger, and was fast 
raking in the golden shekels, while Iris took her 
luck with cold-blooded indifference. Rodney, 
unemotional, was playing a losing game. 

By this time, their voices had grown rather 
excited. Anne’s curiosity was aroused, so she 
rose and walked over to the low French window. 
She remained there, unnoticed by the players. 
The room was darkened, except for the bright 
glow of the swinging lamp, which illumined the 
faces of the four at the table. Grenville sat 
facing her. She noticed the deep, frowning lines 
upon his forehead, and a peculiar smirk around 
the corners of his mouth. Rodney wore what ap¬ 
peared to be a heartless smile; and he seemed 
to be winning now, hand over fist. 

The stakes were mounting higher and higher. 
Rodney was winning systematically. He would 
glance across at Grenville now and then with 
cynical eyes. The nerves of the players had 
reached the straining point. Then came the de¬ 
cisive stroke. Grenville lost a cool one thousand. 
Rodney cleaned up everything, raked it in, with 


72 FIRES OF FATE 

a last card—the card of chance. He leaned back 
in his chair and gave a sneering laugh. 

At that instant Grenville shot up from his 
chair. Snatching a handful of cards he flung 
them scattering upon the table before Rodney, 
and leaning over, exclaimed: “Cheat!” He 
threw the accusation with eyes that flashed and 
lips that seemed to hiss. 

Lady Dawkins and Iris rose simultaneously, 
horrified, while Anne hurriedly entered the 
room. She paused midway between the window 
and the table. She expected to see Rodney rise 
in heated protest against the insult, but he re¬ 
mained seated, calmly twiddling the end of his 
moustache. A brief silence, and then he spoke. 
Glancing up at Grenville, he said lightly: “Prove 
it!” 

Grenville seized the challenge. Picking up 
several cards he advanced towards Anne. 
“Where did these cards come from?” he de¬ 
manded. 

Anne glanced at them hastily. “I never saw 
them before,” she faltered. 

Then Lady Dawkins spoke. “Why, I got 
them from Peterson.” 

Grenville forthwith rang for the butler, who 


THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 73 


approached the table in fawning obeisance. 
“Where did you get these cards, Peterson?” he 
inquired. 

For a moment there was no flicker of response 
upon the butler’s face. Then he said: “I got 
them from Mr. Webb, sir.” 

“Under what circumstances?” 

Peterson cleared his throat, then glanced ap¬ 
pealingly at Lady Dawkins, who said at once: 
“When I asked Peterson last evening for the 
cards, he said there was only one deck left in 
the house, and that was missing.” 

“And so they were, milady,” put in the butler. 
“It was later in the evening, after you’d all re¬ 
tired, while I was searching for them, that Mr. 
Webb very kindly offered to give me his trav¬ 
eling deck, as he called it.” 

Silence ensued until the butler had left the 
room. Grenville broke it after close examina¬ 
tion of one of the cards under the lamp. “Marked 
cards, just as I thought,” he said; “marked by 
various shadings of the fleur-de-lis design at 
each of the four corners.” 

Rodney remained silent. 

Anne came up to Grenville. “Please— 
don’t!” she begged. 


74 


FIRES OF FATE 


He shook her hand from his arm. “This is my 
affair,” he almost shouted. Then he turned 
squarely upon Rodney with hate made more 
bitter by the breath of suspicion. “Well, what 
have you got to say for yourself?” 

Rodney met his gaze unflinchingly, shrugged 
his shoulders, then rose from his chair. “Prove 
it!” he reiterated. 

Anne made another plea. “Grenville— 
please!” 

“Mrs. Karley is quite right,” Lady Dawkins 
declared. “How can you prove that Mr. Webb 
knew these cards were marked?” 

Then Iris joined in, taking Grenville’s part. 
“Mr. Webb supplied the cards, he suggested the 
game, and he’s broken all of us.” 

“At least you might try to clear yourself,” 
Lady Dawkins snorted at Rodney. 

“I’ve nothing to say in the matter,” Rodney 
returned simply. 

Thereupon Grenville turned upon Anne, who 
stood with deep, beseeching eyes. “Either this 
man leaves the house at once, or I’ll go myself!” 
he exclaimed. “You can take your choice.” 

The effect upon Anne was like a thunderbolt. 


THE BREATH OF SUSPICION 75 


She gazed first at one, and then at the other, 
helplessly. 

“Surely a man is master in his own house,” 
Iris intervened. 

Anne felt the floor go from under her feet 
while her little castle of hope tumbled into a 
heap; her pleasant little intrigue with Rodney 
had been smashed. She blamed him for not pro¬ 
testing against the accusation. But why should 
she be drawn into it? The conviction settled 
upon her that Grenville was trying to shift the 
responsibility to her own shoulders. Summon¬ 
ing all her latent courage, and looking steadily 
into his eyes, she said: “It’s your affair, not 
mine.” Then she relaxed, sighing. 

Grenville, taken unawares by Anne’s little 
fling at defiance, turned to Rodney. “There’s a 
train leaving for New York at eleven o’clock,” 
he advised, coolly. 

Rodney took the hint amiably, and departed 
without any fuss. 

Grenville, after the smoke had cleared away, 
realized to his chagrin that he had gained noth¬ 
ing. He had really proved nothing against Rod¬ 
ney, and it still remained his affair, not Anne’s* 


CHAPTER VII 


AROUND THE CORNER 

A NNE had come to town, bringing Gwen- 
nie, whose improvement in health had 
been rapid; and they were staying at 
Honoria’s. The State political campaign was in 
full swing, and election day not far off. But she 
found it rather difficult to sit with folded hands 
amid so much hurrah. Her several attempts to 
share the excitement, if not the responsibilities, 
had brought the aunt’s foot down hard. So she 
had lapsed into the old channel of least resistance, 
yet with an ever growing sense of injustice. 

As the day drew nearer, she became less 
tractable, and began to show stubborn resistance 
to being tied down while Honoria and Iris were 
having their fling at campaigning. The tyranny 
of the aunt finally became unbearable. Added 
to this, was her first knowledge that Grenville 
had a town house of his own on Park Avenue, 

76 


AROUND THE CORNER 


77 


which he had leased shortly after their marriage; 
the home in town that had been denied her. 

The stretched string snapped at last. “I re¬ 
fuse to remain another daym your Aunt’s house,” 
she said to Grenville; “it’s stifling me.” 

Dinner was just over, and Grenville was pre¬ 
paring to hurry off upon a whirlwind tour of the 
city. They stood facing each other in the liv¬ 
ing-room, with its oak paneled walls, antique 
Louis XVI furniture, and soft lighting tones of 
blue and red. 

The excited tone of her voice brought Honoria 
quickly upon the scene. She arrived in time to 
hear Anne’s concluding remark: “I simply can’t 
go on in this way—I can’t!” It was her first 
rebellious note. Grenville gave his aunt a de¬ 
spairing side glance, which was a cue to this able 
tactician of the drawing-room to use her wits to 
save them both from the humiliation of the truth. 

“Don’t you think we should be very consider¬ 
ate of Grenville at this time?” Honoria began, 
purring. 

“Considerate?” Anne returned swiftly. “I’m 
afraid he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” 

“That’s a little far fetched, Anne,” Grenville 
put in. 


78 


FIRES OF FATE 


“It’s a wonder to me that he has time for any¬ 
thing these exciting days,” declared Honoria. 
“I’m sure you misjudge him.” 

“Well, if I do, it’s his fault, not mine,” re¬ 
turned Anne. “It isn’t right that I should have 
to plead for the liberty, the rights, that are mine.” 

“What do you mean, my dear?” asked the aunt. 

“Oh, she’s got it into her head that she should 
take an active part with me in the campaign,” 
Grenville broke in before Anne could reply. 

Honoria feigned the deepest surprise. “I 
never dreamed of such a thing,” she said. 

“You will let me help you?” Anne turned ap¬ 
pealingly toward Grenville. 

“But you’re rendering him the greatest serv¬ 
ice by remaining quietly at home,” Honoria re¬ 
sumed. “That’s the keynote of his whole cam¬ 
paign—wife and baby at home.” 

Anne insisted, and finally won her point. 
Fireworks were blazing against a blue-black sky, 
and bands playing, when they arrived at Me¬ 
chanics’ Hall in the Bronx. Anne was 
strangely excited. She was idealizing Grenville’s 
political effort; as a man and a husband, he had 
lost all imaginative treatment in her mind. 

Grenville was heckled by the crowd all through 


AROUND THE CORNER 


79 


his speech, and at the end, Anne was keenly dis¬ 
appointed. He had not thundered as the aunt 
had led her to expect, and he was far from re¬ 
sourceful in oratory. The band started up a 
lively air as he left the platform, and there was 
wild acclaim on the part of the audience, which 
Grenville proudly acknowledged, while Honoria 
beamed with a feeling of elation. Rut Anne saw 
through it all in a flash. Both Grenville and his 
aunt were blind in the arrogant opinion of them¬ 
selves. He was unpopular with the crowd. 

The same stinging pain of discovery came to 
her at the open air meeting in Rutgers Park, on 
the lower East Side, a section of the city very 
strange to her. 

Was this sleek, fashionably attired man on the 
platform an ally to be solicited, or an enemy to 
attack ? That is what Anne read in the upturned 
faces. 

“We, the representatives of the people, plant 
and work that you may reap.” Grenville’s voice 
rang out clarionlike. 

Then came the first challenge from the crowd. 
“No,” a man’s voice called out. “No; the poor 
man plants and works that the rich may reap.” 
This was followed by a deep acclamation from 
all sides. 


80 


FIRES OF FATE 


Grenville stood unmoved, with an air of list¬ 
less unconcern. He started to speak again, but 
the throng booed him down. He showed signs 
of impatience, which added enmity to insult. 
“Go back to Fifth Avenue where you belong!” 
someone shouted. Then he made the mistake of 
shaking his fist at the unruly ones. The protest 
came in the form of a brick hurtling from the 
outskirts of the throng. It missed Grenville by 
a hair’s breadth; and instead of standing his 
ground, and trying to pacify the people, he made 
a move for a safe retreat. His blunder started 
a near riot. 

Once out of the zone of peril, Grenville dis¬ 
missed the incident lightly. What seemed to 
worry him most was that he had lost a new felt 
hat in the melee. He was conceited enough to 
declare that the majority of the crowd was with 
him, and that only the obstinate antagonism of 
some roughnecks had broken up the meeting. 
Finally, he laid the whole affair at the door of his 
political enemies. It was a plot. His assump¬ 
tion seemed almost insolent to Anne, who saw 
him through the eyes of the crowd. His dress, 
everything that he did and said, was typical of 
the privileged few. He had nothing in common 
with the masses. 


AROUND THE CORNER 


81 


Once again she sat tight and listened as the 
vast amphitheatre of Madison Square Garden 
echoed with the crashing of bands and the thun¬ 
der of applause. Once more she faced the bitter 
truth. Lined up with the brilliant politicians 
of his own party, Grenville sank almost out of 
sight. The triumphal acclamations were for 
them, not for him. She felt as the multitude 
seemed to think, that he was tolerating them only 
for a cause; and by no subtle pretext could this 
newly-blown orator of the elect blind them to the 
flinty selfishness of his nature. This inherent 
haughtiness, the inborn pride of a Karley, would 
spell his defeat. 

Upon their return home, the aunt said to 
Anne: “You’ve seen now for yourself what a 
tremendous following Grenville has among the 
right sort of people. The fact that the hoi polloi 
reject him will react in his favor.” 

This one night of political insight gave to Anne 
a single-thoughted sense of duty, the unswerving 
devotion to Grenville’s cause. 

She reckoned, and wisely, that if the nice peo¬ 
ple of the city supported him, they could easily 
swamp the opposing masses, the great unwashed, 
as Honoria termed them. She knew that only 


82 


FIRES OF FATE 


one conservative newspaper, out of three, sup¬ 
ported Grenville’s candidacy. The yellow press 
and the labor organs opposed him, the Evening 
Gazette more bitterly than all the rest. The press 
was the all-powerful factor. Why not direct 
her activities in that direction? Resources she 
had none; but energy and perseverance she pos¬ 
sessed. 

She would do a little personal campaigning on 
the quiet, and make it a point to visit all the lead¬ 
ing editors to ascertain if possible the cause of 
their opposition toward Grenville. But she must 
first arm herself with some campaign literature 
strong and original enough to command the at¬ 
tention of these editors. She would try her hand 
at writing, but it would be necessary to have 
something to work from, like the document she 
had given to Rodney, which expressed Gren¬ 
ville’s political ideas more vividly than he seemed 
able to deliver verbatim from the platform. 

What was to hinder her from appealing di¬ 
rectly to Rodney? The unfortunate incident at 
Meadowmere was still Grenville’s affair, not hers. 
What a feather in her cap if she could induce 
Rodney to come out boldly for Grenville on the 
very eve of election. She would make it a pas- 


AROUND THE CORNER 


83 


sionate as well as a personal appeal, relying upon 
him as a friend, whose weakness, perhaps, was 
pretty women. She would make him a pleasant 
means to a tremendous end. But whatever she 
undertook must of necessity be quick and effec¬ 
tive in effort. 

Once more she reached out, this time a little 
more experienced, but still childlike in her con¬ 
fidence; and she had a thrill of fierce delight at 
the thought of outstripping the aunt and Iris in 
their attempts to support the candidate. 

The Rembrandt was an antiquated type of 
studio building. Anne found that Rodney lived 
on the ground floor. The entrance to his apart¬ 
ment was from the rear of the hall, which was 
rather dark, and she had to fumble about to find 
the bell. There was no response. Then she 
tried the brass door knocker, to find that the door 
stood partly open. She stood listening intently 
for a moment. Not a sound from within. As 
this seemed rather strange, she decided to go 
outside and telephone. Much better perhaps to 
have done that in the first place, although she had 
planned to surprise him. 

As she stepped from the hall she met an oldish 


84 


FIRES OF FATE 

man coming in, who seemed to recognize her. 
He saw his mistake on second glance, and apolo¬ 
gized, she thought, with the servility of a servant. 
He looked like a valet to her; and so he was. As 
she passed on down the street, Wickers, who had 
been in Rodney’s service for the last ten years, 
entered the studio. 

Rodney was just emerging from his luxurious 
bath—he had a sunken bath of marble with steps 
leading down into it—which will account for his 
not hearing Anne’s attempts to gain admittance. 

“Did anybody ring while I was out, sir?” 
Wickers asked presently. 

Rodney replied in the negative, adding: “Why 
do you ask?” 

“A nice looking young lady was leaving the 
hall just as I returned,” was the reply. “She 
hadn’t come from upstairs, so she must have been 
at your door.” 

“I dare say you left the door open as usual,” 
snapped Rodney. 

“Oh, but I’m sure she didn’t belong to the light- 
fingered gentry,” Wickers returned indirectly. 

“See here, Wickers,” Rodney said, with some 
warmth of temper, “I’ve told you for the last 


AROUND THE CORNER 


85 


time to keep that door locked. If you need the 
air, it’s only a step to the park.” 

Wickers took the chiding good-naturedly. “I 
have to smile, sir, when I think of this young lady 
wanting to get in, and you in your bath. You’ll 
pardon me, sir.” 

“Keep the door closed and locked,” Rodney 
went on regardless. “Why, someone might steal 
in and—and murder me I” 

Wickers gave a little shiver. “I hadn’t 
thought of that, sir,” he commented. “I’ll never 
leave it open again.” With a servile bow, he 
passed into his little two-room apartment built 
in at the rear. A few minutes later he heard the 
telephone bell ring. By the time he had opened 
the door, Rodney was at the telephone, and he 
heard him say: “Oh, Mrs. Karley! Then it was 
you?” 

Rodney joined Anne at the corner drug-store 
—his greeting was most sincere and genial, and 
together they walked up to the park, a matter 
of a few minutes. They passed up and over the 
stone ledge to the little rustic pagoda that 
crowned the hill overlooking the lake. Anne had 
much to say in a brief space of time, and she was 
talking rapidly. The sun, mist obscured, was 


86 


FIRES OF FATE 


bathing the autumnal foliage of the trees in the 
purplish lights of descending day. 

“Then you hold nothing against Grenville?” 
Anne was saying with evident relief. 

“I regard him simply as a big overgrown boy,” 
was Rodney’s response, “who’s so self-satisfied 
with himself that he can’t take a beating, even 
at cards.” 

“He’s always envious of men who are gifted 
by nature,” Anne said. 

“He’s absolutely indifferent about you, that 
much I know. He doesn’t care one way or the 
other.” Rodney broke the ice with one throw, 
but his insinuation came back at him with the 
force of a boomerang. 

“But I care,” Anne declared impulsively. “I 
don’t want to be cast aside. I’ve suffered every¬ 
thing for months, years—long years, to keep my 
vows sacred, to keep up the pretense of a home.” 

“But you are lonely, unhappy,” Rodney in¬ 
terposed. 

She turned upon him squarely. “Don’t you 
see, I’m fighting for my home, for Gwennie’s 
future. I want to do something that will at least 
keep his respect for me. I was nobody when he 
married me, and I want to hold on to what I’ve 


AROUND THE CORNER 


87 


got. I look upon separation—divorce, as a deep 
disgrace. Think what it would mean to me if 
I could help him win the Senatorship.” 

“Win or lose, your future will still be uncer¬ 
tain,” said Rodney. “I can see nothing but lost 
hopes, defeat, for your ideals. No marriage is 
sacred when love is dead.” 

There was a short silence before Anne spoke. 
“But the present is mine,” she said hopefully, 
“and I mean to make the best of it. I mean to 
hold you, dear friend, to your promise given to 
me at Meadowmere, your promise to support 
Grenville’s candidacy. I want letters of intro¬ 
duction to other editors who are hammering him 
so unmercifully.” 

Her plea took Rodney a little by surprise. 
“My promise is my oath,” he said. “Would it 
give you much pain if I broke it?” 

“More than I can say,” came faintly from her 
lips. 

“Would you be willing to accept a compro¬ 
mise?” 

“I might,” she said. 

The rays of the sun came aslant the ridge of 
rocks, and burnished the lake in the hollow. 

“We’ll talk it over again to-morrow,” Rodney 


88 


FIRES OF FATE 


suggested. “Meantime, I will draw up a little 
plan of my own.” 

That sounded more hopeful, so Anne agreed. 
Then she asked about the manuscript. Rodney 
remarked that it was quite safe with him; adding: 
“Am I violating any compact in keeping it?” 

“But you’re going to publish it,” Anne urged. 
“Besides, I’m thinking seriously of writing some¬ 
thing myself, and I might want to use it as a key 
for my inspiration.” 

Rodney then came out bluntly. “Oh, but I 
consider the manuscript worthless. In fact, I 
thought so little of it I stuffed it away with some 
other papers at the apartment, and I’ve even for¬ 
gotten where I put it.” When he saw the deep 
pain reflected upon her face, he added: “I was 
laboring under the impression that you wanted 
the matter dropped. Of course, I see things in 
a different light now, and we may he able to do 
something with it. I’ll look it up by the time you 
call, shall we say, at four?” 

Anne felt that she had won a point; she could 
not exactly count the day as lost. 

At midnight there was a heavy knock at her 
door. It gave her a start, for she knew Gren¬ 
ville was speechmaking on Long Island, and had 


AROUND THE CORNER 


89 


expected to spend the night at Meadowmere. 
There was a moment of breathless silence after 
she had opened the door, a moment of trepida¬ 
tion, as she saw him standing there. 

“Grenville! What is it?” She had read evil 
tidings in his face. 

“I’ve come all the way from Meadowmere to 
ask you something,” he said in a low, excited 
voice. 

“So important as all that? Why didn’t you 
telephone?” A thousand fears beset her; and 
yet what had she to fear? 

“Much too important to ’phone about,” re¬ 
sponded Grenville, as he stepped inside the room. 
He lowered his voice, looking at her searchingly. 
“A very important paper of mine is missing. I 
placed it in the secretaire with other private 
papers that first day of our week-end party.” 

Anne experienced a heavy sinking feeling. 
“You mean the paper you wrote on ‘The Fight 
for Political Reform’ ? I thought you didn’t con¬ 
sider it so important. You remember how I in¬ 
sisted that you have it published-” 

“Oh, I have that one all right.” As he spoke 
he drew it from his coat pocket. Anne recog¬ 
nized it by the robin’s egg blue cover. She 



90 


FIRES OF FATE 

glanced over it hurriedly as the black shadow of 
fear encompassed her. What had she done? 
She handed it back tremblingly. 

“The manuscript I speak of,” Grenville went 
on, “had the same sort of cover. And I was 
either drunk or crazy when I wrote it. If it 
falls into the hands of my political enemies, I’m 
lost—irretrievably lost!” 

Anne tried hard to swallow the lump that kept 
rising in her throat. “You told me nothing 
about it,” she said, finally. “What was it about?” 

“A personal account, in my own handwriting, 
of recent investigations into the brothels and hell¬ 
holes of New York.” 

Anne gasped. “But the public would acclaim 
such an investigation.” She was groping for 
some excuse. 

Grenville cut her off short. “Don’t you un¬ 
derstand, it was my personal experiences, not 
an official investigation. I went there—for my 
own pleasure.” 

Anne stood aghast. For a moment the mistake 
she had made in giving Rodney the wrong manu¬ 
script seemed to shrink out of sight in the pres¬ 
ence of a deeper disturbance. “You would stoop 
to a thing like that,” she moaned, “and then put 


AROUND THE CORNER 91 

it down in black and white?” The revelation 
stirred her as nothing had before; there was hor¬ 
ror in her heart. 

4 ‘You ought to know by this time that I never 
think decently of any woman,” he said with a 
grimace. “There’s no reason why I should keep 
up this standard of false morality any longer. I 
confess my duplicity freely.” 

Anne pierced him with her gaze. She had 
seen around the corner, and all was black despair. 
She had built up such a false faith in him, and 
now he had shattered it. She knew he was one 
of the few people in the world who have no kind 
feeling in their hearts, but she did not know,— 
she had always put such thoughts away from 
her,—that he was a man of prurient mind and de¬ 
voted to promiscuous amours. 

“Suppose I go down to Meadowmere and 
search again,” Anne began. 

“The first thing in the morning. Let nothing 
stop you.” 

“I’ll do my best to find it.” 

“If it’s not there,” Grenville spoke fiercely, 
“then Rodney Webb has it. That dirty cheat 
would stoop to anything.” 

“Oh, but I’m sure it wasn’t stolen,” said Anne 


92 


FIRES OF FATE 


in a half pleading voice; “at least, not taken in¬ 
tentionally to harm you. Let’s hope it has only 
been mislaid.” 

“I’ll trust you to find it.” As Grenville spoke 
he seized Anne by the forearm, so savagely that 
it pained her. “You’ve got to find it!” he ex¬ 
claimed. 

After he had gone, Anne seemed to feel her 
heart suddenly drop, like some wild thing that 
has vainly tried to repress the pain of a death- 
wound. Why had she not told him the whole 
story of the mistake she had made—to have done 
with the questions that would be asked? 


CHAPTER VIII 


FIRES OF FATE 

O NTCE more Anne’s plans had been smashed; 
and out of the wreckage of honest inten¬ 
tion had risen a mocking spectre—Gren¬ 
ville’s confessed infidelity. Why had he placed 
this hideous truth in her path ? 

She must now undo what she had done; but 
could she trust to Grenville’s justice and generos¬ 
ity to believe that she had acted only where his 
greatest interest was concerned? 

By ten o’clock she succeeded in reaching Rod¬ 
ney by telephone at the office of Truth. Having 
nothing but her own instinct and pluck to rely 
upon, she thought best to veil her purpose in 
asking for an interview before the hour set. “I 
must see you as soon as possible,” she urged. 
Rodney, with voice undisturbed, said he would 
be tied up until three at the latest, as it was the 
day before publication. Anne persisted: “Only 
for a few minutes. Why not at luncheon time?” 

93 


94 


FIRES OF FATE 


She added that she was downtown, and gave her 
telephone number. 

“Suppose I call you up at one?” Rodney sug¬ 
gested. “That’s the best I can do.” Then, casu¬ 
ally: “What’s up?” 

Anne replied: “I’ve changed my mind about 
something.” 

Rodney gave a low laugh. “Oh, that’s your 
privilege. Still, I trust you mean to keep our 
appointment at four.” 

“That depends,” returned Anne lightly, add¬ 
ing indifferently: “Did you find the manuscript, 
‘The Fight for Political Reform?’ ” 

“Sorry, but I neglected to look for it,” was the 
response. 

“It really doesn’t matter,” Anne assured him 
in conclusion. 

She tried to pass the time by joining the 
shopping throngs. Never had she felt so hope¬ 
lessly alone. 

When she returned to the hotel from which 
she had telephoned, she was disappointed to learn 
that Rodney had called in the meantime. It was 
not quite one. So she took a taxi and drove to 
the office of Truth . 

No; Mr. Webb had just stepped out—a blonde 


FIRES OF FATE 


95 


functionary at the switchboard in the outer office 
informed her. He had left no message; he might 
return within an hour; again, he might not come 
back at all during the afternoon. Perhaps he 
had gone to the Rembrandt? The blonde person 
thought that hardly likely at this hour of the day. 

Without stopping for lunch, Anne drove im¬ 
mediately to the Rembrandt. Wickers answered 
her ring promptly, and showed some surprise at 
her presence. Anne recognized him from the 
previous day, and smiled graciously, although she 
noticed that he regarded her with rather sorrow¬ 
ful eyes. “You’re Mrs. Karley, I believe?” he 
said offhand. 

Anne winced a little under the recognition, 
and betrayed her nervousness when she learned 
that Rodney had just telephoned that he would 
not be home until five to dress for dinner. “But 
he has an appointment to see me at four,” she 
explained. 

“He never fails to keep his appointments with 
the ladies, ma’am,” Wickers ventured. “Sorry 
you missed him at the office, and I’ll tell him 
when he ’phones.” 

Rodney was not in when she called the second 
time at the Rembrandt, but he was sure to be 


96 


FIRES OF FATE 


home by five. She wondered if the valet was 
lying to her, as again she passed out, this time 
into the autumnal dusk, with myriads of lights 
glimmering down the vista of streets. 

To fill in the time, she drove around the park, 
and then left the taxi, planning to walk back, in 
the effort to calm her nerves. She was acting in 
a lie. She had decoyed herself into this false 
position, and was now held a prisoner. She had 
the indefinable sense of helplessness, not only of 
herself but of her son. She felt hemmed in by 
the fires of Fate. Somehow Gwennie seemed to 
share all that she was risking. In saving the 
father from humiliation and disgrace, which 
threatened him on account of her thoughtless act, 
would she not be protecting the name of her boy? 

When again she stood outside Rodney’s door, 
her clear eyes had lost their light; her face had a 
haggard, anguished expression; there were lines 
in it that told of a quick transition from things 
hopeful to the bitter despondency of calamity. 
This time she was promptly admitted by Wickers, 
who said: “Mr. Webb is dressing for dinner, 
ma’am. He will see you in a few minutes.” 

Anne sat down in the hall to wait. It was a 
long, narrow hallway, and rather dimly lighted 


FIRES OF FATE 


97 


by the ruddy glow of a swinging lantern. In the 
excitement of the moment she felt it close and 
stuffy, and pressed her hand to her hot cheek. 
Wickers, observing her seeming discomfort, 
opened the door a little, although he knew it was 
against his master’s orders. 

Anne made an effort to compose herself by 
studying her surroundings. There were niches 
in the walls holding statues, panels of old Italian 
lace, and mirrors. She noticed a large mirror at 
the end of the hall that gave a feeling of space, 
and was so hung as to reflect the soft lights in the 
adjoining room, giving one the impression of 
looking around a corner. Under a shield and two 
steel spears, she observed a glass cabinet, contain¬ 
ing a collection of curious weapons. 

Feeling a little more composed, she rose and 
made a closer inspection of the curio cabinet. 
There were daggers and rapiers, some with curi¬ 
ously carved handles. One in particular she no¬ 
ticed—a dagger with a sharp-pointed blade, its 
handle being encrusted with rubies and emer¬ 
alds. Its beauty attracted her. She ran her 
fingers over the jewels to see if they were real, 
and finding it easily removable from the panel, 


98 FIRES OF FATE 

she held it in her hand for a moment, where it 
glowed like some live thing. 

Hearing footsteps, she glanced down the hall. 
She saw Wickers approaching. She quickly re¬ 
stored the dagger to its place, and then the valet 
appeared. What she had first seen was his reflec¬ 
tion in the mirror, so she took it for granted that 
he had not noticed her handling the weapon. She 
explained that she was just admiring the collec¬ 
tion. 

“Quite all right, ma’am,” Wickers remarked; 
“they are perfectly useless and collect a lot of 
dust, but Mr. Webb seems to get much pleasure 
out of them.” Then he showed her through the 
living room and library into the drawing-room, 
remarking as they passed through the library that 
his master had some rare old Mennoyer drawings 
there. But it was too dark to observe the pic¬ 
tures. The three rooms could be thrown into one, 
and were separated only by heavy curtains. 
There were dim wall-lights burning in the living 
room, but none in the library. 

From where Anne stood in the drawing-room 
she could look between the curtains to the far end 
of the living room. The drawing-room! evidently 
fronted on the street, but the windows were con- 


FIRES OF FATE 99 

cealed under old rose brocade with a fleur-de-lis 
design done in gold. For distraction, she was 
eager to fasten her mind on anything. She no¬ 
ticed the touch of gold in the panel mirrors, the 
gleam of crystal in the girandoles, and the pre¬ 
dominance of pink roses in the upholstery. 

Rodney entered the room before she was aware 
of his presence. In the highly excited condition 
of her nerves she started perceptibly when she 
saw him standing in the curtained entrance. 

For a moment he held her hand without a word, 
then he spoke very graciously and softly. “I’m 
so sorry you’ve been put to all this inconvenience, 
but it has been through no fault of mine. I tried 
to get you on the ’phone, and of course I took it 
that you had postponed our appointment at 
four.” 

“A day of errors,” Anne sighed; “of stupidity 
on my part. But having changed my mind about 
something, I felt I should get in direct touch with 
you at once.” 

“About what?” asked Rodney. 

“I’ve decided to release you from the com¬ 
pact,” Anne replied: “our little secret under¬ 
standing about publishing the manuscript and 
supporting Grenville. I feel that Grenville is 


100 


FIRES OF FATE 


strong enough to go it alone, and that my ama¬ 
teurish efforts to assist him on the quiet might 
hinder his chances of election, should they become 
known.” 

“Surely nothing discreditable on your part,” 
returned Rodney. “Still, I think you’ve made 
a wise decision. Much better to let him fight his 
own battle.” 

“It will be a clean fight now between the oppos¬ 
ing candidates,” said Anne. 

“And the stakes will be—?” Rodney began. 

“If Grenville wins, as I’m sure he will, it 
will make us all very happy,” Anne concluded, 
hopefully. 

“Meantime, you must have something refresh¬ 
ing,” Rodney suggested. He touched a button. 
“You really look fagged out, like the persecuted 
heroine in a melodrama.” 

Anne smiled grimly. “I feel anything but like 
a heroine,” she commented. 

“I hate heroines,” drawled Rodney, as he lit a 
cigarette. “They’re always so pure.” 

Just then Wickers entered, bearing a silver 
tray with two glasses of red wine. “I always keep 
it for medicinal purposes,” Rodney said as he held 
up his glass. Anne took only a few sips, sud- 


FIRES OF FATE 101 

denly remembering that she had gone without 
lunch. 

“Here’s to the safety and happiness of wives,” 
said Rodney, then drained his glass. 

“And here’s to the men who respect them,” 
Anne added swiftly. 

Wickers withdrew from the room. To Rod¬ 
ney, his valet was only a piece of furniture, with¬ 
out eyes, ears or tongue. 

One purpose was set and burning in Anne’s 
mind, to get hack the manuscript. She won¬ 
dered where he had stuffed it away. Perhaps the 
matter was already in type. How to begin? 
Suppose that he should refuse to return it to her? 
For an instant her blood ran chill. She tried to 
appear composed, and prattled away on various 
subjects. She spoke of the charm of his quar¬ 
ters. “Still, you seem to run to extremes, with 
Louis Seize things in the parlor and wicked look¬ 
ing spears and daggers in the hall.” She smiled. 

“Oh, all those weapons are auction stuff, of no 
value whatsoever,” Rodney explained. 

“I noticed a curiously shaped dagger, really 
wonderful,” Anne went on enthusiastically. 

“A very good fake,” rejoined Rodney; “the 
original, I learned, is owned by some Oriental 


102 


FIRES OF FATE 


potentate. It’s symbolic, you know, and repre¬ 
sents passion. The red jewels signify the glow 
of love, the emeralds, green-eyed jealousy.” He 
watched her searchingly as he spoke. 

“Very interesting.” Anne’s eyes lighted up. 
“Why not utilize it as a paper-knife? You might 
cut up manuscripts that were loaned to you.” 

Rodney caught on in a flash. “But you said it 
didn’t matter now.” 

“It doesn’t. You said yourself you considered 
it of no value.” She was trying artful evasion. 
Then she became a little more serious. “It’s cus¬ 
tomary to return such things, isn’t it?” 

“And so you really want it back?” He re¬ 
garded her with a faint, amused smile. 

“Well, naturally-” 

“Is this the paper you refer to?” He drew the 
script from his inner coat pocket and held it up. 

“It must be,” she returned, with sudden anima¬ 
tion. “It has the same cover, a robin’s egg blue.” 
She took a step forward. 

Simultaneously, Rodney turned and walked to 
a small gilt table, with an inlaid top, standing in 
the center of the room. He must have touched a 
secret spring somewhere, for a drawer flew open. 
He placed the paper in the drawer, which 



FIRES OF FATE 103 

snapped shut. His manner was of polite defi¬ 
ance. 

“If it’s of no value, why do you lock it up?” 
Anne inquired, artfully. 

“What would you give to have it back?” Rod¬ 
ney asked with sudden vehemence. 

Anne tried to appear unconcerned. “I’m not 
here to discuss terms. I’m simply appealing to 
you as a friend.” 

“Yet you came here this evening with your 
mind made up to get possession of it—at any 
cost.” 

Anne flared up a little. “Aren’t you taking a 
good deal for granted?” 

“You know what’s in that script,” Rodney ex¬ 
claimed. 

“I do now, but I didn’t when I gave it to 
you,” said Anne, growing white. “I know it’s 
something that would blacken Grenville’s name.” 

“He missed it, and put it up to you. That 
accounts for this sudden change of mind on your 
part, this sudden desire to release me from the 
compact.” Rodney’s voice was growing more 
excited. “And I’ll wager anything that you 
didn’t tell him what really had become of it.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Anne returned, honestly. “It 


104 


FIRES OF FATE 


was given to you in confidence, and you led me 
to believe it was worthless. Knowing its value, I 
still have implicit trust in you. You will let it 
remain where you’ve just placed it.” 

“Truth goes to press to-morrow,” Rodney said, 
in a challenging voice. 

“X know, it goes to press every Wednesday, 
but you’re too much of a gentleman to publish 
the contents of that paper.” 

“Just watch me,” exclaimed Rodney. “I mean 
to publish it a few days before election.” 

That was what Anne wished to know; what 
she had been leading up to. It was not to come 
out on the morrow. She breathed more freely. 
Then she said: “Oh, you couldn’t, and be honest 
with yourself or with me.” She turned to go. It 
was in her mind to leave him baffled. 

“You’re going?” asked Rodney anxiously. 

“Yes; and I mean to tell Grenville that the 
missing paper has been found. That it is in your 
possession.” 

“You mean you’ll tell him that I—I stole it?” 

“Oh, how cruel you are!” Anne sighed heavily. 
Then she added: “I mean to shoulder all the 
blame as to how it got into your keeping. Then 
it will become simply a matter between Gren- 


105 


FIRES OF FATE 
ville and yourself. You still have a grudge to 
settle, and this will be another. Please settle 
them both as amicably as you can.” She ad¬ 
vanced toward him. “And now, good-night.” 

Rodney laughed incredulously. “I’ll call a 
taxi.” He excused himself. 

The moment he was gone, Anne gave a fright¬ 
ened glance around the room, then glided softly 
to the little gilt table. She felt nervously about 
it for the secret spring. Not finding it, she tore 
at the drawer itself, clutched frantically at it. 
Then she sensed that she was not alone in the 
room. Looking up, she faced Rodney. His go¬ 
ing had only been a ruse. 

“I thought as much,” he remarked, bitterly. 

“But, don’t you realize that if you keep this 
manuscript,” said Anne, once more in control of 
herself, “that you will be placed in a very dan¬ 
gerous position?” 

“I’m not afraid of Grenville, damn him!” he 
returned sullenly. 

She turned to go. Rodney’s manner changed 
as if by magic. “My dear Mrs. Karley, why all 
this fuss to save a husband’s reputation when he 
has lost every vestige of affection for you? Be 
honest with yourself, with your friends.” 


106 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Friends?” Anne glanced up inquiringly. 

“A young woman in your position must see the 
fitness, the absolute necessity of having one friend 
at least. Why all this false morality, this cow¬ 
ardly regard for conventionalities? What does 
this millionaire’s money amount to when he 
doesn’t give you even the pitiful pay that he 
throws to a painted woman in the streets?” 

Anne retreated, shivering. “Please don’t talk 
to me like that,” she begged. 

“As for this manuscript, I hold it at a price. 
I’ll give it back to you, tear it into shreds, any¬ 
thing you say, if you will only—” he paused. He 
laid his hand endearingly upon her arm. “Let me 
prove to you my honesty, my loyalty.” 

Anne drew away from him, shuddering. There 
was a startling change in her eyes. 

“I don’t wish to be unpleasant,” Rodney went 
on passionately, “but you can’t say that you 
haven’t led me on, given me reason to hope. 
You’ve met me halfway in everything so far. 
You must realize how disagreeable it would be if 
your husband-” 

Anne raised her hand appealingly, which had 
the desired effect. Rodney stopped short. She 
regarded him for a moment with deep pity in her 



FIRES OF FATE 107 

eyes. “Either you’re drunk or crazy to talk to 
me like this.” 

“I’m perfectly sane, except on one subject—” 
he paused, then added grimly: “and that’s you.” 

“Why—why have I been so blind?” she asked 
herself. She turned upon him squarely. “I real¬ 
ize now,” she said rather sadly, “what it means to 
appeal to a man through his false standards as 
a friend. I never thought of you in any way ex¬ 
cept as a friend, and you can’t frighten me by 
threatening to blacken my honest intentions.” 

He laughed lightly. Instantly a picture was 
recalled to her mind. They were sitting under 
the arbor in the garden at Meadowmere, in the 
black and silver of shadow and moonshine. Once 
again she saw him, as she had seen him in the 
garden that night. She retreated, shuddering. 

“I want you as I have never wanted any other 
woman,” he confessed tensely, slowly advancing. 

Anne looked around helplessly. “I came to 
you as a friend. You have outraged my trust in 
you. What am I to think?” 

“Call me a coward if you like,” said Rodney. 
“I don’t mind being called names by a pretty 
woman.” 

“Oh, you’re contemptible I” Anne flared up. 


108 FIRES OF FATE 

“And I mean to hold you accountable for this 
insult.” 

“Insult?” Rodney chuckled. “You came here 
of your own accord-” 

“And I mean to leave of my own accord.” 
Anne made a move to leave the room, but Rodney 
cleverly blocked her way. “See here, Mrs. Kar- 
ley, you can’t play with fire without getting your 
wings singed. You’ve been playing with me ever 
since the night of the motor car accident. You’ve 
been playing me for a good thing for the sake of 
that damn husband of yours, when he would give 
up half his fortune to find you in a compromising 
scene like this. So don’t go too far, or I might 
get nasty. You’re here now, and you might as 
well accept my conditions.” 

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Anne; “and I 
have no intentions of accepting any conditions. 
Why should I?” She eyed him scornfully. “If 
you stand in my way any longer, I’ll—I’ll 
scream.” 

“You wouldn’t be so foolish,” Rodney chided. 

Anne accepted the challenge. “I’ll do any¬ 
thing to show you up for what you are!” she 
blazed. “You’re low-down, vicious—” That was 
as far as she got, for it took just that spark from 



FIRES OF FATE 


109 


her own fire of repulsion and abhorrence to touch 
off the magazine of Rodney’s pent-up passion. 

Instinctively she felt that the man had lost his 
reason. She tried to cry out, but his hand was 
over her mouth, a hand that felt like claws. She 
struggled, and all the time she felt herself grow¬ 
ing more helpless in the clutches of this uncon¬ 
trollable insanity of unbridled passion. She won¬ 
dered at this wiry strength that could crush her 
with terrible suffering. The shock to her men¬ 
tality was even worse than the physical pain. 
She felt the poison of lips upon her cheeks, her 
hair. Her strength finally succumbed; she saw 
the objects in the room racing away from her, 
and there was a mist growing in front of her eyes. 

Then something seemed to still the force that 
was devouring her. In chilling terror she felt 
his arms and body lose all their vitality. Rodney 
gave a broken, stifling cry; his breath was coming 
in gasps as the throbbing veins were tightened 
and throttled. 

Freed from his embrace, she recoiled a moment. 
Horror-struck, she watched him stagger, then 
fall face downward upon the floor. After a vio¬ 
lent convulsion of the body, he lay quite still. 
Bending over him she was vaguely conscious of 


110 


FIRES OF FATE 


something that gleamed red and green. With a 
choking cry she realized what had happened. 
Rodney had been stabbed in the back, and the 
weapon was “Passion’s” dagger. She recognized 
it from the jeweled hilt. Her first impulse was 
to let the dagger remain imbedded where it was, 
then the thought came that if it had not pierced 
his heart, she might still save him. Overcoming 
a spasm of horror, she knelt down beside him, and 
drew out the weapon. She dropped it shudder- 
ingly upon the floor beside the body. 

The silence of death prevailed; she could hear 
her own labored breathing. 

She approached the door in the rear of the 
living room which opened into the valet’s quar¬ 
ters. She shook the door by the knob, and finding 
it locked, pounded upon it. Wickers appeared 
finally, sleepy-faced and wide-eyed, as if he had 
been awakened from sound slumber. 

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” he inquired. 

“Look!” Anne cried convulsively. That was 
all she could say, as she kept pointing towards the 
drawing-room. She followed Wickers into the 
library, and remained there while he passed 
on. She saw that he was deadly white when he 
returned. “Why, he’s dead, ma’am,” he whis- 


FIRES OF FATE 


111 


pered hoarsely. Then he asked: “Was there any¬ 
one else in the room?” 

“I saw nobody,” Anne moaned; “it all hap¬ 
pened so quickly. Oh, please send for someone. 
Telephone for my husband, Grenville Karley, at 
once. His number is-” 

“I’ll find it, ma’am,” said Wickers as he 
walked away. He turned just before leaving 
the room. “Hadn’t I better notify the police?” 

The effect of the word police was like a blow. 
She lurched a little forward, supporting herself 
by the back of a chair. “Yes; yes. Call the 
police.” 

The moment Wickers had disappeared into the 
living room, the set resolve that had influenced 
her actions all through the day, that had outlived 
the horror of the moment, came back to her more 
forcibly than ever. She crept stealthily into the 
drawing-room, keeping her head slightly turned 
away from the grewsome sight upon the floor. 
She groped as one blind until her fingers closed 
upon the top of the little gilt table. She found 
the secret spring, pressed it; the drawer flew 
open. She snatched up the manuscript that Rod¬ 
ney had placed there, concealed it on her person, 
and had barely time to creep back into the library 



112 


FIRES OF FATE 


when Wickers returned. “We’ll just have to 
wait now, ma’am,” he said in a hushed voice, “till 
somebody comes.” 

Anne sank weakly into a chair in the darkened 
library. Wickers walked quietly into the draw¬ 
ing-room, and a moment later, she heard him 
moaning to himself. 

The doorbell rang, rousing her from the leth¬ 
argy of despair. Wickers hurried by like a gray 
phantom. She heard voices. When she looked 
up, Grenville was bending over her. 

“My God! This is terrible!” she heard him 
exclaim. 

Then the police came. 

Before they entered the room, Anne clutched 
Grenville’s arm. “Listen to me,” she whispered, 
as she pulled him closer to her. “The missing 
manuscript, I found it here. He tried to keep 
it from me-” 

“Then he did steal it?” 

“No; I gave it to him myself, at Meadowmere, 
and by mistake. He had promised me to help 
you win. It was a little secret between us.” Her 
voice trailed off plaintively into nothingness as 
the police filed grimly through the dimly lit room. 



FIRES OF FATE 113 

Watching her chance, she transferred the docu¬ 
ment into her husband’s keeping. 

As she sank deeper into the chair, Grenville 
found her hand. “I want you to promise me 
something, Anne,” he urged under his breath. 
He kissed her with cold lips upon the forehead. 
“That you will never reveal what brought you 
here.” 

“I’ll promise anything,” she echoed vaguely, 
clinging to him convulsively. “I promise,” she 
repeated. 

“There’ll be an autopsy, of course,” he went 
on. “It may turn out to be a suicide. 

Anne shuddered. “It’s all very strange to me. 
I did not see him struck down. There was no one 
else in the room.” 

“No matter what happens. I’ll get you out all 
right,” said Grenville, reassuringly. 

It came upon Anne then for the first time that 
she might be suspected of murder. The thought 
had no sooner flashed through her mind than the 
curtains were flung back, and she was revealed, 
her face a dead white, in the sudden shaft of 
light. 

“Is this the woman?” the police lieutenant 
asked the valet. Wickers nodded his head sor- 


114 


FIRES OF FATE 


rowfully. “But I’m sure she had nothing to do 
with it,” he said. 

Grenville stepped forth. “I happened to be 
the first to arrive, officer,” he said, “and I found 
the door into the hall wide open.” 

Wickers started perceptibly. “Yes; I did 
leave it open when Mrs. Karley arrived, and 
against my master’s orders. I forgot to close it. 
I was in my quarters at the rear, sir-” 

“Who’s this man?” the lieutenant interposed, 
indicating Grenville with a jerk of his head. 

Grenville made himself known. “And this is 
my wife,” he added. 

Thereupon all eyes were turned upon Anne, 
who sat motionless in the chair, her head inclined 
to one side, and breathing heavily. 

“She’s fainted,” said the lieutenant. 



CHAPTER IX 


THE FACE REAPPEARS 

F OR days the front pages of the press had 
been emblazoned with the facts, alleged 
and otherwise, of the murder. Rodney 
Webb, famous dilettante, the brilliant and 
brainy editor of that caustic and snappy political 
weekly, Truth, mysteriously struck down in 
his apartment at the Rembrandt, during the 
clandestine visit of Mrs. Grenville Karley, wife 
of the candidate for the Senate. . . . Young 
wife, of humble parentage, declares her inno¬ 
cence. . . . Husband, a member of one of the 
city’s wealthiest and most distinguished families, 
active in her defense. . . . Element of oriental 
mysticism colors the case, owing to curiously 
designed dagger, and the manner in which death 
was inflicted. , . . Who struck the fatal blow? 
And so on. 

The case finally sifted down to the general 

115 


116 FIRES OF FATE 

condemnation of the woman. Since God cre¬ 
ated male and female, woman has been paying 
dearly for her sex. “Damn the woman!” has 
echoed down the ages. 

The public could only see Anne as the un¬ 
faithful wife. A victim of chance, she stood 
tragically alone. What grim circumstance had 
conspired to send her to prison as a murderess? 
Would there be no release ever from these stone 
walls that seemed to smother her? 

A little ray of cheerful light in her darkest 
hours was Grenville’s belief in her innocence. 
But one day he said to her: “When you are 
brought to trial, the prosecution will try to prove 
something else besides the actual crime.” 

“But you wouldn’t believe that of me?” She 
clutched him by the arm. 

“Not so long as you keep your promise to 
me,” he rejoined lightly, “about your real mo¬ 
tive in visiting Rodney at that hour in the 
evening.” 

“To save the honor of the house of Karley,” 
Anne sighed. 

“To save yourself, too,” Grenville put in. 

“Yes; I might have spared myself all this if 
I had told you everything that night, but I had 


THE FACE REAPPEARS 


117 


no excuse to offer for my apparent wrongdoing. 
After what you confessed to me, I stood in ter¬ 
ror of admitting the mistake I had made. I 
trusted Rodney rather than you. I was blind— 
foolish-” 

“We want to get you acquitted,” Grenville 
broke in; “nothing else matters now. We plan 
to speed the trial up as much as possible, and 
you will not be required to take the stand.” Anne 
looked at him inquiringly. “I’ll let you in on a 
little secret,” he added. “The moment the State 
rests its case, your counsel will waive its right 
of argument and ask immediate submission of 
the case to the jury.” 

Anne leaned back against the wall. “I’m in 
your hands, and, oh, so helpless!” She paused. 
“Supposing things go against me?” 

“Now don’t look on the dark side of every¬ 
thing,” he chided, a little petulantly. 

“How can I help it when I’ve disgraced, 
ruined you all forever?” She spoke with a dry, 
choking sob in her voice. “I’ve spoiled all your 
chances for winning the Senatorship, just when 
I was trying to help you.” 

“You may be the means of my getting in,” 
he returned, coolly. The condemnation of his 



118 


FIRES OF FATE 


wife had won for him the public’s sympathy. 
He was basking in a false light. 

“Is it true,” Anne went on,” that the world 
never forgives a woman who makes one mistake 
in her life—will never take her back into the 
fold?” 

“That sounds like you’ve been reading the 
Evening Gazette” he remarked scathingly. 
“You know it’s against my orders for you to 
read the newspapers.” 

“It was only a clipping,” she assured him; 
“one of the sentenced help gave it to me.” 

Grenville hushed her with an impatient ges¬ 
ture, and rose. “If you can’t see fit to do as I 
ask you, I despair of ever getting you out. And 
by no means talk to a reporter. If they quizz 
you, just say, ‘see my lawyer.’ ” He glanced 
over the head of Anne as she sat on a bench in 
the matron’s office, through the open door, into 
the courtyard. “There’s Pumpelly now, wait¬ 
ing for me.” He hurried off without another 
word. 

Pumpelly was Honoria’s choice of a lawyer 
rather than Grenville’s. He had seen his best 
days, and had grown rich in selling his wits to 
get people out of trouble and jail; an overfed. 


THE FACE REAPPEARS 119 


rotund sort of person, with a red, apoplectic face. 

The day of the trial dawned darkly; a chill 
October day. When the great oaken doors of 
the trial-room were opened, men and women 
fairly fought their way through a cordon of 
police to gain access. 

“The State will show that the dead man and 
this defendant were lovers; that there was ani¬ 
mosity and also quarreling between them.” The 
voice of the accuser sounded frightfully in Anne’s 
ears. 

“There is no mystery attached to this terrible 
crime that has shocked the community,” the 
prosecutor continued. “We shall offer evidence 
to prove that this woman, blinded by guilty love 
and rage, delivered the death-blow that sent one 
of the most brilliant-minded men of New York 
into eternity.” 

Anne gazed about the courtroom helplessly, 
with eyes filled with terror, seeking in vain for 
some gleam of trust, of sympathy. 

“The State will further show that the defend¬ 
ant, before the killing of Rodney Webb, had 
shamelessly carried on an illicit intrigue with 
him under the very roof of her home—the roof 


120 


FIRES OF FATE 


that sheltered her only child, and this while under 
the loving protection of her husband.” 

Anne’s hands clenched, and her lips moved in 
grim defiance. “Lies, all lies!” she whispered 
to her counsel, who, by a glance, gave her to 
understand that she must take her medicine 
courageously. 

“We shall show this young wife’s restlessness,” 
the accuser continued; “and how she kicked 
against the traces, like so many wives of to-day, 
refusing to share the joy and responsibility of a 
real home. She wanted adventure. Born to 
lowly estate, she became madly extravagant. 
She longed for greater freedom.” 

Lady Dawkins was the first witness called, and 
it hurt Anne like a sword-thrust to learn for the 
first time that her little intrigue with Rodney 
had been misinterpreted so cruelly. But the 
dowager lady proved to be a refractory witness. 

She told ramblingly of what she had seen the 
night Anne and Rodney had met upon the 
terrace. “I saw their shadows on the white 
window blind, but I couldn’t for the life of me 
make out what they were talking about outside 
of politics. Then I saw their shadows merge 
into one. This might have meant a kiss or a 


THE FACE REAPPEARS 121 


caress, and, again, it might not. At any rate, it 
occurred after the goose appeared.” 

“The goose?” asked the prosecuting attorney. 

“Yes; shadow pictures like your mother used 
to make on the nursery wall when you were in 
knee panties,” responded the dowager lady. 

The defense gained nothing under cross- 
examination; and just before Lady Dawkins 
stepped down from the stand, she leaned over 
and whispered to the Judge: “I knew your 
father very well. Do come up and have a cup 
of tea with me.” But all she got was a stern 
reprimand; and she gave way frigidly to Iris, 
who corroborated that part of the dowager’s 
testimony relating to the finding of Anne’s scarf 
and Rodney’s hat upon a bench on the terrace. 

Then Honoria was called; and the effect of 
her testimony was like the bursting of a bomb. 
It seems the aunt had never told Grenville about 
the motor accident and Rodney’s after-midnight 
visit at Meadowmere, as she had vaguely implied 
to Anne that night that she would do. 

Puggins was called as the last connecting 
thread with Meadowmere. He stoutly denied 
that he had noticed anything suspicious in the 
conduct of the defendant with the deceased, or 


122 


FIRES OF FATE 


vice versa. “Still, Lady Dawkins did say to me 
that she suspected everything, but knew nothing. 
She said-” 

“Well,” urged the prosecution. 

“Well, that everything at Meadowmere was 
crinkum-crankum!” 

The general titter that followed this bit of 
testimony was silenced by the gavel. 

Puggins seemed to know more about what 
had happened between Rodney and Grenville, 
and spoke spicily of the little flare-up between 
them over the caustic paragraph in Truth , and 
later, at cards, whereupon Pumpelly took objec¬ 
tion to the matter as wholly irrelevant. It looked 
for a moment as if Pumpelly was there to shield 
Grenville and not his wife; but the inference 
among the few was lost at the uproar caused 
when Puggins started to revile the dead man, 
ending up with: “Rodney Webb was a cur, and 
got what he deserved.” As a result of his tirade, 
he was fined twenty-five dollars for contempt of 
court, which he cheerfully paid. 

Election day brought things to a standstill. 
Before the great steel bolts were shot for the 
night, Anne was informed of Grenville’s sweep¬ 
ing victory at the polls. She did not seem to 



THE FACE REAPPEARS 123 


mind. She was tired out. During the afternoon 
she had begged for something to do, and the 
matron had given her a pail of water and a brush, 
so she had scrubbed the floor of her cell. 

At the resumption of the trial, the telephone 
girl at the office of Truth was the first witness 
called. 

4 ‘Did you overhear any of the conversation 
that passed between the defendant and the de¬ 
ceased over the telephone?” queried the prose¬ 
cutor. 

“I did not,” the girl flashed back. “I never 
listen in, and I just happened to be conversing 
with a friend of mine in Greenpoint.” 

“Talk a little louder!” snapped the attorney, 
who was disappointed over her testimony. He 
watched her shift her chewing gum from one side 
of the mouth to the other with evident disgust. 
“Leave it at home next time,” he admonished in 
an undertone. 

The girl stared at him. “My Gawd, is it 
against the law to chew gum?” she asked. 

“That’s all!” roared the attorney. 

Thereupon the blonde person stepped down 
from the stand with a display of filmy lace and 
trim ankles. 


124 


FIRES OF FATE 


Wickers, during the first part of his testimony, 
kept his eyes upon the prisoner, and they were 
eyes of deep compassion. He was finally ordered 
by the prosecution to direct his remarks to the 
j^y. 

“ . . . Well, when I returned to the hall-” 

“What did you see?” 

“First, I saw the defendant in the reflection 
of a mirror at the end of the hall. That was 
before she saw me. I noticed that she was stand¬ 
ing before an open cabinet upon the wall, in 
which Mr. Webb kept a collection of weapons. 
She had actually removed one of the weapons, 
a dagger, from its place, and was evidently 
admiring it.” 

“Did she put it back?” 

“Yes; when she heard me coming. She 
seemed confused when I stepped into the hall, 
and I spoke of the collection of weapons more 
to relieve her embarrassment than anything else, 
sir.” 

The State then offered in evidence the blood¬ 
stained dagger. As the prosecuting attorney held 
it up for identification, the jeweled hilt caught 
the rays of artificial light and gave out sparks of 



THE FACE REAPPEARS 


125 


red and green. Anne, at the sight of it, gave a 
smothered cry. 

“Can you identify this?” 

Wickers swore that it was the same dagger he 
had seen the defendant handling just before the 
tragedy, but was positive she had put it back in 
place. 

“But what you really saw was in the reflection 
of the mirror?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“After you entered the hall, did you try to 
establish more firmly in your mind that the dag¬ 
ger had been restored to its place?” 

“I did not take the trouble to look, sir. I 
assumed it was there.” 

“Could not your eyes have been deceived by 
the mirror?” 

“She made the motion of putting it back, sir.” 

“Then you’re not positive one way or the 
other?” 

Wickers hesitated a moment before replying. 
“I’m—I’m not positive, sir,” he said. 

A medical examiner followed the valet on the 
stand. He described the autopsy on the victim’s 
body, and declared that in his opinion any frail 
woman could have delivered the fatal blow. It 


126 


FIRES OF FATE 


was also shown that there had been a struggle 
between the defendant and the deceased, indi¬ 
cated by scratches found on the face and hands 
of Rodney, and a slight abrasion on the cheek of 
the accused. In the examination of fingerprints, 
those identical with the prisoner’s had been found 
both upon the blade and the hilt, and in two 
places her fingerprints were doubled, proving 
that the weapon had been handled twice by the 
defendant. 

Finally the State rested, and then came Pum- 
pelly’s sensational move in declaring that the 
defense would offer no testimony. 

Anne lived through the next hour in a daze. 

She swayed a little as she watched the bailiff 
handing the jury’s verdict to the clerk to read. 

“Murder in the second degree.” 

Crushed by the verdict, she was led, trembling 
and white-faced, from the courtroom. The one 
thought in her mind was that the whole world 
was arrayed against her. 

The autumnal sun, burnishing the city in 
rose madder and copper, sent its slanting rays 
through the courtroom windows. She felt a 
thousand eyes upon her, so she kept her own cast 
upon the floor. 


THE FACE REAPPEARS 127 


Suddenly she gave a perceptible start. There, 
across her path, lay the shadow of a woman. 
Glancing to the side, she saw a youngish woman, 
heavily veiled, standing a little apart from the 
crowd in the rear of the courtroom. As she 
looked, the veil was raised for an instant, and in 
that glance she recognized the strange young 
woman who had made such an impression upon 
her at St. Jude’s on her wedding day. 

Once again she caught the flash from those 
burning eyes, and then the massive doors of the 
prison closed upon her. 


CHAPTER X 


BURNING EYES 

M UCH was said and written on the newly 
elected Senator’s attempts to have the 
verdict set aside; his efforts to get his 
wife out on bail, pending an appeal. After the 
various motions and appeals had been denied, 
preparations were made to take Anne to the 
State Prison at Woburn, there to serve out 
the grim sentence that had been passed upon 
her—from twenty years to life. Public interest 
in the case was waning. 

There was no outcry from Anne. She seemed 
to be in a daze; all her actions were mechani¬ 
cal. There was nothing to live for now. She 
had given up all claim on Gwennie. Her son 
was to grow up in ignorance of the mother’s dis¬ 
honor. Even if she were released in twenty 
years, he would be just upon the threshold of life. 
She remembered dimly what the aunt had 

said: “To make it legal, we must have your 
128 


BURNING EYES 


129 


signature. It will give us a freer hand in Gwen- 
nie’s bringing up, his education, his selection of 
friends.” 

Ashen shadows had gathered around Anne’s 
mouth as she went through this ordeal. She read 
where she was asked to read, and signed her 
name, with a nervous scrawl, where she was 
directed to sign. As she had proved herself to 
her husband, she would now prove herself to her 
son. 

Quick oblivion to all her hopes and fears was 
all she asked; she bowed her neck humbly to the 
yoke of tragic destiny. She yielded to what 
appeared to be a very affectionate farewell on 
the part of Grenville and his aunt. “I want to 
be forgotten,” were her last words to them. 

The afternoon was far spent. Only half an 
hour remained and she would be transferred to 
another prison. She sat in a dark corner of her 
cell, agonizingly alone, and forsaken by all. 

She looked up. The matron stood at the 
door. “A lady to see you,” said the matron, who 
had shown her many kindnesses. “She comes 
from your lawyer. ‘Something very important,’ 
she says.” 

The interview took place in the matron’s little 


130 


FIRES OF FATE 


office, and it was not to last more than fifteen 
minutes. The visitor wore a dark, waterproof 
cloak that reached to her ankles, and a long veil 
of gray chiffon that concealed her face. Anne 
felt the peculiar burning of the eyes behind the 
veil; she sensed the identity of the stranger at 
once. She noticed that the cloak was moist. It 
gave her an opportunity to break the tense silence. 
“I didn’t know it was raining,” she said. “We 
know so little in here of what is going on out¬ 
side.” As she spoke, she glanced around the 
bare room, with its whitewashed walls and barred 
windows. 

“But you must know by this time that you 
have a friend.” The visitor’s voice was soft and 
gentle. She raised her veil. 

“Who are you?” gasped Anne. “Why do you 
come here?” 

“To right a wrong,” the visitor replied sagely. 

“I saw you at the church, in the crowd, on my 
wedding day,” Anne went on excitedly; “and the 
other day, in the courtroom; and now here. 
What does it mean?” 

The young woman held out her hand. “Please 
don’t ask any questions,” she begged. 

She had the poise, the voice, of a woman of 


BURNING EYES 


131 


culture. In gazing at her, Anne had the uncanny 
impression of looking at herself in a mirror, so 
greatly did they resemble each other. Yet she 
could not account for the dusky skin, the slightly 
aquiline nose, the high cheek bone, unless- 

“Yes; I’ve Indian blood in me,” the visitor 
spoke intuitively. “My father was white, and 
my mother a full-blooded Iroquois. But I’ve 
lived among the whites all my life.” 

“I’ve always been told that I look like an 
Indian,” said Anne. “And sometimes I feel as 
an Indian would feel who has been wronged. Of 
course you know that I am innocent of this ter¬ 
rible crime,” she went on. She stopped short. 
“Why should you know?” She gave a little 
hysterical laugh. 

The visitor came forward and laid her hand 
appealingly upon her arm. Anne continued, 
wildly: “What have I done to be punished like 
this? I’m alone—God knows how utterly alone. 
Everything has been taken from me.” She 
looked about frightened. “Sometimes I’m afraid 
my mind will go, too. I’ll go mad up there in 
prison. ...” 

She clutched at her throat, and sank back 
weakly into a chair. As she sat there, a sort of 



132 


FIRES OF FATE 


weird fascination in the eyes that looked down 
upon her in compassion kept her gaze from wan¬ 
dering. Her stretched nerves seemed to relax. 

“Who are you?” she reiterated; and then she 
said: “I know. You’re an angel of mercy. No 
one ever falls by the roadside but that someone 
does not step out from the crowd to comfort, to 
help them-” 

The stranger stood directly under the bright¬ 
ness of the electric lamp, and her face seemed to 
be illumined. As Anne gazed into her eyes she 
seemed to undergo a change. The intense emo¬ 
tionalism she had experienced had opened the 
door to her subjective mind for hypnotic control. 
As Dr. Jex had often told her, hers was a psychic 
nature, and her mind was now being slowly 
placed under the power of another’s suggestion. 
She had a feeling of deep composure, like that 
which precedes sleep after fatigue of mind or 
body. 

“Think your thoughts as well as speak them, 
my dear,” she heard as if from afar. 

“I feel much better now,” Anne murmured 
under the influence of this strange, subtle fluid 
that was pouring out of the stranger’s eyes. 

The visitor smiled. “Now, you are going to 



BURNING EYES 


133 


enter into a state of quietness,” she went on, 
while Anne showed every sign of becoming 
obedient to her will. “Relax every muscle, and 
look steadily at me,” the voice continued. “A 
drowsy, sleepy feeling is all over your body. 
Your eyes want to close.” 

Anne’s body trembled—the natural protest of 
individual intelligence against the surrender of 
its rights and power of self-control. Her eyes 
closed. 

The visitor stepped aside, and sighed in relief. 
She knew that she now possessed autocratic con¬ 
trol over the prisoner’s will; that she would ever 
be in direct connection or touch with this sub¬ 
jective mind. Distance could offer no resistance 
to its successful mission, such was her wonderful 
hypnotic power. 

She leaned over the silent figure in the chair 
to give the post-hypnotic suggestions. 

“Listen, my dear,” the visitor said. “You 
must forget everything and everybody, even 
your husband and your child, that have influenced 
your life up to this moment.” 

Anne nodded assent. 

“When anybody asks who you are, simply say: 
Tm called Daughter of the Moon.’ You are an 


134 


FIRES OF FATE 


Indian—a half-breed. Do you understand? 
Now, you must obey me, and do everything I 
suggest. Remember, you are a bead worker. 
YouVe made your living that way ever since you 
were a little girl. And you’ve always been 
good—haven’t you?” 

As she spoke, the stranger swept her hand 
lightly across Anne’s forehead. Anne opened 
her eyes. 

“You’ve always been a good woman?” the 
stranger repeated. 

Anne smiled rather feebly. She started to 
smooth down her hair, and seemed very pleased 
when the visitor gave her a small handbag. As 
she inspected its contents—a sewing and bead 
embroidery outfit—the voice that held her con¬ 
tinued: “And always remember this—you can 
never be any man’s wife. You are not in a con¬ 
dition mentally to marry, and there are other 
circumstances that would prevent you. Is that 
quite clear to you?” 

Anne signified that she understood. The 
stranger went on: 

“Once you give yourself, your body, to a man, 
and all that you have suffered—all this punish¬ 
ment—will come back to you.” 


BURNING EYES 135 

Anne shrank under the threat, but quickly 
rallied. 

“This little bag will come in handy, for you 
are about to start upon a long journey.” The 
commanding voice was lighter in tone. “Your 
railroad ticket is in there, and money for ex¬ 
penses.” The visitor glanced up at the clock. 
“We must hurry now, or you’ll miss your train,” 
she concluded. 

At this juncture, the visitor quickly removed 
her cloak, hat and veil, and put them on Anne, 
who offered no resistance, so completely was she 
under hypnotic control. 

The subconscious self in her had accepted every 
suggestion made by the strange woman. The 
subconscious, or what was really her imagination, 
was presiding now over every function of her 
organism. Nervously deranged from mental 
suffering, she was ignorant of the fact that she 
was being directed by another’s suggestions; she 
was just a poor puppet, without any power of 
resistance. 

“You’re going up north now for a much 
needed rest,” the voice continued. “You’ve 
nothing to fear.” 

Anne looked at her inquiringly. 


136 


FIRES OF FATE 

“A friend of mine, a Mrs. Jimerson,” was the 
ready reply, “is waiting for you outside in a 
taxi—a red and white one; remember that. She’s 
an Indian woman, a bead worker like yourself, 
and she’ll look after you and give you plenty 
to do. Just try and get back your health.” 

“Shall I ever hear from you?” asked Anne 
blandly. 

“Oh, I shall be in your thoughts constantly,” 
replied the stranger; “and in your dreams.” 
She gave Anne a small silver cross attached to 
a mere thread of a chain. “Here’s a little remem¬ 
brance. Wear it constantly, and kiss it every 
night before you go to bed. It’s all I ask of 
you—just to remember me as a friend.” At this 
she kissed Anne lightly upon the cheek, and then 
repeated softly, almost to herself: “ ‘Greater 

love hath no man than this, that a man lay down 
his life for his friends.’ ” 

Anne smiled, and took the young woman’s 
hand. It was like bidding herself good-bye, for 
the stranger was dressed similarly to herself, 
even to the arrangement of her hair. This fact, 
however, made no impression upon her mind. 

“I’ll do everything you say,” she declared fer¬ 
vently, “and I’ll go where you wish me to go.” 


BURNING EYES 


137 


Their time was up. The stranger showed the 
tensity of her face when she raised it to glance 
at the clock. She gave the final instructions to 
Anne in a low, hurried voice. “When the matron 
comes in, just make a polite bow and walk out 
this door,” indicating the entrance to the court¬ 
yard; “don’t raise your veil. Then walk across 
the yard to the main prison, where a man will 
conduct you to the street. Nod and smile at the 
gray-haired keeper at the gate as you pass out. 
Be very polite, but do not speak.” 

Then came the great test. 

But there was no questioning in the matron’s 
mind as the visitor bowed herself out of the room, 
and Anne’s counterpart in the chair rose, weep¬ 
ing, and returned to her cell, maintaining a stolid 
silence until the great steel doors at Woburn had 
closed upon her for from twenty years to life. 
She had successfully carried out the great hoax; 
had assumed Anne’s name and taken her place. 
Why? 

Anne did not know. Her past had been blot¬ 
ted out. She had a new sense of existence under 
hypnotic influence. The past had become a 
Sphinx, looking out over an unyielding waste 


138 FIRES OF FATE 

of secret sands; the future, shadowy with dim 
possibilities. 

A new life awaited her in the north, where 
nature would reclaim her. And as the train 
sped northward, she slept the unbroken sleep of 
a tired child, snuggled up close to the Indian 
woman who was to shelter and protect her. 


CHAPTER XI 


A NEW LIFE 


IRCLED to the west and north by a 



mountainous ridge, the little mushroom 


camp of woodsmen, known as Tom’s, lay 
secure from the fierce and tempestuous winds 
that began to sweep down the valley at the first 
fall of snow. Long after autumn had painted 
the white ash, rock maple, beech and elm a flam¬ 
ing scarlet, and bronzed the t^jl grasses at the 
edge of Cedar Lake, the heart of this protected 
valley gleamed like an emerald. 

Hemlock Rapids were navigable upstream to 
a point one mile below Tom’s Camp. Once a 
month, during the open season, a small steamer 
panted her aged way to the headwaters of the 
rapids, bringing provisions and woodsmen’s tools 
from Maryville, where the sawmills were located. 

During the last year, however, the steamer had 
only made three trips, for all the camps, save 
Tom’s, had been abandoned. The miles of thick 


139 


140 FIRES OF FATE 

woodland had been sacked as mediaeval towns 
were sacked by Vandal methods. This had left 
the camp peculiarly isolated, except for the small 
settlement of derelict Indians, who dwelt in 
lodges of logs north of the lake, the left-overs 
of a one-time busy spot. Orlando Mohawk acted 
as their chief. 

They still held on through the indulgence of a 
white man; a man who had battled with work, 
with nature, who never forgot or never forgave; 
who took fiendish delight in making men feel that 
they were just so much riff-raff. Such a man 
was Tom Goodheart, known more familiarly in 
the timberland as the Wolf Killer. 

He was barely thirty-five, but long exposure 
to the elements and grinding toil had seemed to 
harden and age him prematurely. For some 
years he had been the pride of the timber specu¬ 
lator and the pulp concession man, but they had 
tricked him, and now he was burning to revenge 
himself upon his fellow men. Those who rebelled 
against his cruelties, he kicked out of camp as 
“not worth a damn.” 

And it was to Tom’s camp that Mrs. Jimer- 
son, a member of the Indian settlement, brought 
Daughter of the Moon. 


A NEW LIFE 


141 


Daughter of the Moon was Anne Hambleton’s 
other self. Under the strange hypnotic phe¬ 
nomena, one personality had been changed into 
another. 

There was no change of character; under the 
control of the mysterious woman now serving out 
her sentence in prison, Anne had simply devel¬ 
oped a hypnotic personality. She had no memory 
of her former state except vague flashes, and she 
was being called by a name that was strange to 
her. In all her actions, outside of her natural 
instincts, this discarnate intelligence, far removed, 
impelled her, as radio guides a ship in the fog. 
The amazing part of this unusual condition in 
which she had been placed was that the sub¬ 
merged consciousness, about which Dr. Jex and 
her friends had often spoken—this inherent 
strain of an Indian, the heritage from her 
father’s first love, influenced her ideas and feel¬ 
ings. She felt perfectly at home with Mrs. 
Jimerson, in an environment that was abject and 
crude. 

Her subconscious self had absorbed the sug¬ 
gestion that she was a kinswoman of the Indians, 
and that her past was a sealed book. Auto¬ 
suggestion had become a driving power; im- 


142 


FIRES OF FATE 


planted ideas were driving her imagination like 
a wild horse without reins. Her case was similar 
to that of a victim of hysteria and amnesia, her 
mind a perfect blank about herself, but other¬ 
wise normal. 

She felt a little easier after breakfast, the 
morning after her arrival, although strange 
thoughts, like frightened birds, flew in and out 
of the window of her brain. She began to study 
more closely her surroundings. She noted Mrs. 
Jimerson’s weakness for bright colors. The log 
cabin was a cross between a wigwam and a house. 
There were no bolts or bars on the doors. Upon 
the stone hearth sat a huge iron kettle, filled with 
hulled corn. There was an attic, with a flooring 
of loose boards, stored with unhusked corn and 
stalks of sugar cane, and a crudely made ladder 
in place of stairs. An alcove, curtained with 
calico, contained a bunk, and this Anne used as 
her bedroom. 

Mrs. Jimerson had shed her “store” clothes, 
and appeared in an overdress of gayly figured 
calico, with leggings of heavy blue broadcloth, 
richly embroidered with beads; her coal-black 
hair, parted in the middle, fell in two long plaits 
over her shoulders. 


A NEW LIFE 


143 


Anne felt strong enough, after the stimulation 
of black coffee, to clean up thk big room, while 
her companion squatted serenely by the fireplace, 
smoking an old clay pipe. Then she rested in a 
deep rustic chair covered with a black bear skin, 
while Mrs. Jimerson busied herself reducing red 
and white corn to meal in a mortar, using a long 
pounder. 

When Anne sighed wearily, Mrs. Jimerson 
looked up. “By and by, you get well and 
strong.” 

“Who was the Indian that called yesterday?” 
Anne asked presently. 

“Chief Orlando. He come to give protection 
to half-breed lady. Chief is very good Indian. 
He say great sin for Indian to marry white 
woman.” 

“But I can never be any man’s wife.” Anne 
spoke the words mechanically, as if impelled to 
speak them. Then she lapsed into a wearied 
silence, and finally slept a little. When she 
awoke she spoke of a dream—a dream that win¬ 
ter had gone, and spring had come, with purling 
brooks and singing birds. 

Mrs. Jimerson had just taken down the dis¬ 
carded gray dress from a peg in the wall, and 


144 FIRES OF FATE 

was curious to know what she should do with it. 
The sight of it seemed to bring a feeling of terror 
to Anne. “Put it away,” she cried; “I never 
want to see it again. It seems to remind me of— 
what?” She turned upon Mrs. Jimerson. “Tell 
me, where did I come from? What am I doing 
here? Who am I?” She half rose in her chair, 
then sank back wearily. 

Mrs. Jimerson came to her side. “Indian 
woman never asks questions, and all she know 
and say is, half-breed lady pay to stay here long 
as she pleases, to make pretty things, to get back 
strength.” She smoothed back Anne’s hair ten¬ 
derly. 

“There’s so much I can’t seem to understand,” 
said Anne. “There seems to be a high blank wall 
back of me, hiding everything that happened 
before I came here with you.” 

“Much better to look straight ahead,” consoled 
the Indian woman. 

“Oh, there must be something to look forward 
to,” sighed Anne: “just the joy of living, of 
freedom.” 

“White-face mission man say plenty good 
times in sweet by-and-by,” crooned Mrs. Jimer¬ 


son. 


A NEW LIFE 


145 


From that moment there was a deeper under¬ 
standing between the two women, so strangely 
unlike; and a change seemed to come over Anne, 
as if the past with its vague but menacing 
memories had been swept away. That evening 
she watched the sun go down, a big red ball 
that transformed the sky into colored glass, 
and silhouetted a solitary pine tree on the crest 
of the hill in deep, almost lacquered blackness, 
against the kaleidoscopic hues. Instinctively, 
she took the little silver cross suspended round 
her neck, and kissed it, softly repeating: “In 
remembrance.” While a sweet memory passed 
before her like the flitting of a cloud, of a friend 
who had made some great sacrifice for her; whom 
she tried hard to remember but could not. 

So her life began to adapt itself to the new¬ 
ness and strangeness of things about her, as if 
she had been born again. While she had been 
reduced to a mere automatic machine, controlled 
by the hypnotic power of the woman who had 
given her life as a ransom, now two hundred miles 
distant, she had not lost her valuation of life. 
Her bodily nerves were independent of the mind, 
and were strong enough to influence her actions, 
to give her the intuitive impulse to escape danger, 


146 


FIRES OF FATE 


and to know hate and love. Carnally, she was 
free. And it was while experiencing this first 
display of the passionate senses, independent of 
the mind, that she first looked upon Tom Good- 
heart. 

She had wandered from the lodge just before 
sunset, impelled by natural curiosity to learn 
more about her immediate surroundings, to get 
the lay of the land; and, most of all, to see what 
a logging camp looked like. Mrs. Jimerson, 
slapping up some cornmeal batter for the even¬ 
ing meal, did not miss her; and she had gone 
out wearing a long blanket, drawn tightly about 
her head, Indian fashion. 

The air, clear as crystal, seemed to buoy her 
up as she walked toward the edge of the clearing. 
The stillness of eventide was broken by the sound 
of wood-chopping, and it was very near. A little 
further on she saw a man at work, and she sat 
down upon a log to watch him as he whipped his 
axe through the air in felling a white birch strip¬ 
ling. The sight thrilled her, so she rose and drew 
a little closer to him. 

She noticed that he was young and very 
strong; that he had black hair, and wore a torn 
flannel shirt, and that his trousers had lost one 


A NEW LIFE 


147 


leg below the knee. She gazed at the chopper 
now rather than at the axe or at the tree. In 
moving about a dry twig snapped under her foot. 
Instantly the chopping ceased. 

Tom, with a woodsman’s trained ear, turned 
around, resting his axe against his bootleg. He 
showed no concern at the discovery of the 
watcher, who stood motionless as a statue. There 
was a swift exchange of glances, glances that 
reflected themselves as in the shadowy, changeful 
depths of silent pools. 

Anne wondered who the young man was, and 
what he might say; she had no feeling of fear. 
She had been admiring his physical prowess as 
she did that of a wildcat that had strayed earlier 
in the day into Mrs. Jimerson’s acreage, and had 
made a futile attack upon the chicken-coop. 

Then she suddenly became aware of a look of 
ill-concealed disgust upon the man’s face, while 
a contemptuous smile curled his lips. They were 
so forceful that she had the sensation of being 
struck in the face. She shrank back shuddering 
as Tom shouldered his axe and walked away, 
leaving the tree unfelled. She watched him until 
he disappeared among the tall birch trees, whose 
branches had taken on the warm, rich color of 


148 


FIRES OF FATE 


the sunset clouds, piled above the western hori¬ 
zon in purple and flame-lit rifts. She felt dis¬ 
appointed that he never looked back. 

Later, she related her experience to Mrs. Jim- 
erson, who immediately guessed the identity of 
the woodchopper. 

“Beware of the Wolf Killer,” said the Indian 


woman. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF KILLER 

N OVEMBER had started with rain, and 
an open winter had been predicted by the 
old men of the Indian tribe, who still 
clung to their blankets, and whose weather 
prophecies were unfailing. 

The old tub from Maryville had made its last 
trip, bringing back the woodsmen who had been 
playing the fool and blowing in their last stake. 
The rain had been falling all day in a gentle 
pitter-patter, while a wind, that chilled to the 
marrow, kept up a dismal soughing among the 
straggling pines. In the bunkhouse, a stove 
radiated the only cheerfulness; and a kerosene 
lamp, that swung from the log ceiling, afforded 
a certain light for a card game that was in prog¬ 
ress. The men stood two deep around the table, 
expecting something to happen every moment. 
Things often happened at Tom’s. Far removed 
from the ordinary haunts of men, a certain law¬ 
lessness prevailed. 


149 


150 


FIRES OF FATE 


The bunkhouse was commodious, with bunks 
built three tiers high, each one fitted with balsam 
boughs and coarse blankets. In one corner of 
the great room was a rough wooden sink, an odd 
collection of tin basins, flanked by roller towels, 
and a barrel of rain water. Through the window 
on this side a glimpse could be had of the cook 
camp, with its rusty range, long board table and 
array of tin dishes. Lying promiscuously about 
the bunkhouse were Mackinaw jackets, herrons, 
snow-pacs, woolen caps and mittens. And over 
everything hung a pall of steam, rising from the 
wet clothes that had been hung up to dry. 

The long settled rain, enforced idleness, and 
the after-effects of bootleg whiskey, had put 
most of the men in an ugly mood. Those who 
were not playing black-jack, or amusing them¬ 
selves by looking on, were stretched out in their 
bunks. The close of a desolate day, and the 
damp, foul air seemed conducive mostly to 
groans and cursing. Intermittently a man, 
slouching on a stool in a dark corner, coughed 
up his toe-nails in the pangs of whiskey sickness. 

Presently there came a heavy knocking at the 
door, and Andre Lenoir, the camp cook and 


HOUSE OF THE WOLF KILLER 151 


fiddler, admitted the caller, an oldish Indian, in 
faded blue overalls, with a blanket thrown over 
his head and shoulders. 

All the men turned and faced the Indian as 
he stood hesitatingly at the door. “Had bad 
luck with my squaw,” he said finally; “too much 
squaw! Ugh!” 

His remarks were greeted by a loud explosion 
of laughter. 

“Ess it not sad, gentlemin?” Lenoir inter¬ 
ceded. “Ze poor Indian got bad squaw. Now, 
he come to try and trade his wife for ze whiskey.” 

“Come on in, partner,” spoke up Paltz, the 
blacksmith, from the card table; adding, as the 
Indian advanced into the room: “Well fix you 
up, old scout. But it’s no trade. We got no 
use fer squaws. I’ve knowed a heap of Injins, 
but I never knowed any but the meanest that’d 
turn tail, an’ go back on their own color.” 

While he was speaking, a side door opened 
quietly, and Tom entered, so unobtrusively that 
no one seemed to notice him, all eyes being 
centered upon the old Indian. 

Paltz had to walk around the card table to 
reach the center of the room. As he passed the 


152 


FIRES OF FATE 


stove, a lean, bedraggled dog, a pointer that had 
wandered into camp that morning and had found 
refuge in the bunkhouse, crawled from behind a 
wood bin. Paltz kicked at him savagely, and the 
dog snarled and snapped. 

“You’ve come to the right place,” he said to 
the Indian, “fur there’s nobody here that thinks 
hisself above sellin’ bootleg whiskey to a half- 
breed. If anybody tells you differint you tell 
’em they’re spoutin’ hot air. We all know the 
boss logger is gittin’ squeamish over the men 
sellin’ it in your camp, but all you gotta do is 
call on me.” 

So saying, he produced a bottle of gin from 
his hip pocket and handed it to the Indian. 
“Here’s the stuff, an’ believe me, it’s the goods. 
Pass it round among your friends. It’s a gift, 
’cause I want to stand in square with you 
In jins-” 

“Put it back,” came another voice—a voice 
that vibrated with rage. The men turned in 
surprise upon Tom. 

Paltz paid no attention to it. “What’ye ’fraid 
of, Injin?” he pressed doggedly. “There ain’t 
no p’licemen, or jails, up in these parts, an’ you 
got rights same as us. Go on, take it!” 



HOUSE OF THE WOLF KILLER 153 


“Don’t you dare give it to ’im,” roared Tom, 
with anger that brought to sight the power of 
every swelling muscle. 

Paltz still held out the bottle at arm’s length. 
“ ’Avadrink, anyhow,” he urged the Indian. 

At that instant, Tom, deft of finger and quick 
on the draw, whipped out a gun. It barked once, 
and the bottle and its contents were shattered 
and scattered in the blacksmith’s hand. The 
Indian turned tail and bolted for the door. The 
slinking cur followed at his heels. The men took 
to cover, the table being overturned in the rush. 
Paltz alone stood unmoved; and with a sneering 
smile upon his thick lips. 

“Damn good shot, that,” he commented calmly, 
licking his fingers. Then he wheeled squarely 
upon Tom. “Say, ain’t we got any say-so in 
this camp ?” he bawled. 

“You know my word is law here,” replied 
Tom, his bps white with rage. “If you don’t 
like it, get out!” 

Paltz then tried to pass the situation over 
lightly. “Ain’t it better to keep on the good side 
of them Injins?” 

“No more whiskey for the Indians,” said Tom, 
scowling, and speaking generally, for the men 


154 


FIRES OF FATE 


had emerged from cover. “You all got to cut it 
out. Understand ?” And with his characteristic 
distaste for lingering over trouble when he had 
got the best of it, he walked over to where Lenoir 
was sitting and slapped him good-naturedly 
upon the shoulder. “Give us a tune, sweet¬ 
heart,” he commanded. 

As Lenoir picked up his fiddle and began to 
saw away, Paltz bit off a fresh quid of tobacco 
fiercely and, with a half-smothered oath, made 
his departure. Some of the men returned to 
their cards, while others took to the floor. 

Tom was in high spirits. Having won where 
he often anticipated repulse, he entered into the 
boyish romps of the men. And he knew by 
experience that there was nothing more hazard¬ 
ous to the logging game than to have men, who 
were making no money, lying around idle for 
weeks in their bunks. 

He danced just as he swung the double-bitted 
axe, until the sweat dripped and glistened upon 
his cheeks, his active body, lean and lithe, show¬ 
ing fine balance. His coal-black hair stuck 
through the crown of an old felt hat; his eyes 
and a two days’ growth of beard were black; and 
in his eyes shone that primeval instinct, the sense 


HOUSE OF THE WOLF KILLER 155 

of watchfulness that seems to lie asleep in civi¬ 
lized life. 

Luck of chance seemed to favor this strong 
man of the forest. Left without resource by 
the timber speculators, he had taken another 
year’s lease on the naked land. By trick of fate, 
he had discovered a regular gold mine of timber 
located several miles east of the camp, in a nar¬ 
row ravine that had been staked but not stripped. 
Tapping this treasure trove early in the summer, 
by autumn he had sent half a million feet of logs 
downstream to the sawmills. When the spring 
freshets came, he hoped to have another half a 
million feet to put in the boom. 

Nobody knew why he hated women. The 
Indian women in camp said that he had ice water 
in his veins. He had incurred Mrs. Jimerson’s 
hostility by trying to drive her from one of the 
camp’s outlying shanties to the Indian settle¬ 
ment. He said she knew too much for an Indian 
woman, and he was envious of the business she 
did in beadwork and baskets with the agents at 
Maryville, who supplied the general trade with 
Indian hand-made novelties. 

. . . Suddenly, in the midst of the merriment, 
a youth, pale, slender, with a mop of flaxen hair 
that needed the shears, burst into the room. It 


156 


FIRES OF FATE 


was the kitchen boy, known in the camp as the 
Crazy Kid. He had drifted into the camp some 
two years previous, after escaping from a gov¬ 
ernment hospital, where he had been kept since 
the close of the war, a victim of shell-shock, hav¬ 
ing long periods of silence, broken at times by 
the most fearful recollections of grim conflict. 
The sight of blood, or any form of cruelty, 
seemed to drive him frantic. 

Tom, by giving him shelter, had won a firm 
place in the lad’s affections, although he was as 
a rule indolent, and, like the Indian, had an aver¬ 
sion to work. When asked to tell his name, he 
would invariably reply: “Ask the moon.” He 
always referred to his parents as a “couple of 
stars.” 

“ ’Ere’s that dippy dipper agin,” a lumberman 
remarked as the boy hurried to where Tom stood, 
clapping his hands in musical rhythm, while a 
lumberjack did a clog dance, shouting as he 
danced: “I’m a bob-cat! I’m a bob-cat!” 

“Well?” interrogated Tom. And the moment 
he spoke he sensed that something has gone 
wrong, for the lad’s eyes were set and staring, 
and his fingers were twitching. 

“Paltz kill my dog,” the boy cried. “My poor 
dog—my good friend!” 


HOUSE OF THE WOLF KILLER 157 

As Tom spoke the men crowded round them. 
“Now, don’t get excited, kid,” he said in a voice 
that was both gruff and gentle; “keep your shirt 
on, and tell us just what happened.” 

The Crazy Kid related in broken sentences 
how he had been feeding the dog, which led a 
frightened life on the outskirts of the camp; how 
he had finally coaxed him to the cook-house, 
when Paltz came and drove him into the black¬ 
smith shop. “I look in window. I see Paltz tie 
my dog to anvil. Then he picked up long piece 
of iron, and he beat my dog. My poor friend!” 
He burst into a paroxysm of tears. 

Tom did not wait to hear another word. He 
stalked out of the bunkhouse, while the men 
crowded at the window. 

Paltz had just raised a long rod of iron, and 
with face contorted and eyes bloodshot, was 
about to deliver the death blow upon the helpless 
cur at his feet, the dog that had snarled and 
snapped at him in the bunkhouse, when Tom, 
with a pantherlike spring, rushed upon him, 
snatched the rod from his grasp, and with one 
blow of the fist sent the blacksmith sprawling 
upon the cinders. 

As Paltz struggled to his feet, Tom seized the 


158 


FIRES OF FATE 


rod. Every muscle was trembling, and there was 
a fierce light in his eyes. 

“I ain’t done no hurt to you,” bawled Paltz, 
for he was a coward at heart. “That dirty cur 
bit at me, an’ I gotta right to protect myself.” 
He glanced down at the limp form of the dog. 
“He got what was cornin’ to ’im.” 

“And you’re going to get what’s coming to 
you,” roared Tom. 

Paltz retreated a few steps. “You ain’t goin’ 
to kill me, boss?” he mumbled hoarsely. “Why, 
I only struck ’im a couple o’ times.” 

“Hold out your arm,” commanded Tom. 

“You dare strike me, an’ my friends in camp 
will stick you up,” cried Paltz in heat. “There 
ain’t a man in camp but’ll stand up fer me agin’ 
you.” 

“Hold out your arm!” Tom repeated, with 
blazing eyes. 

Paltz extended his arm, and quick as a flash, 
Tom brought down the iron rod with full force 
upon it. Paltz groaned in pain; but he had to 
take his medicine. The second blow cut a deep 
welt, but the blacksmith’s muscles were so strong 
that the rod was bent in two. He sank down 
upon his knees and plunged his bleeding arm into 


HOUSE OF THE WOLF KILLER 159 

a tub of water. “Who keers a damn?” he 
drawled. 

Tom glanced down at him reproachfully, for 
he knew that the meaner a man is, the more 
revengeful. “You red-faced son of Judas 
’Scariat,” he exclaimed. “If you start stirring 
up trouble among the men, or if ever I catch you 
beating this dog again, I’ll kick you out of camp.” 

At this juncture Chief Orlando strolled up. 
Paltz saw him, and said under his breath: “I 
could hit a man when he’s down, too, if I had 
the In jins back of me.” Rising, he continued 
defiantly, “Some day you’re goin’ to git your 
neck stuck in a noose. You ain’t the law, not by 
a damn sight!” 

Tom gulped down his resentment, tossed the 
iron rod aside, then picked up the dog and carried 
it to the cook-house, where it was left in the care 
of the Crazy Kid. When he returned to the 
bunkhouse the men were in the midst of their 
hilarity as if nothing out of the ordinary had 
happened, but Tom was not blind to the mali¬ 
cious glances cast at him. The majority of the 
men took sides with the blacksmith. Although 
this hostility towards the boss logger slumbered, 
it was like a wood ember, which a sudden blast 
of wind can turn into a red-hot coal. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE CONFLICT 

T HE report that a strange woman had 
suddenly dropped into camp unheralded, 
as from the skies, spread quickly, and the 
effect upon these uncouth denizens of the forest, 
all women hungry, was most exciting. Lenoir 
took the initiative in sprucing up, and sallied 
forth, the day following her advent, to see what 
he could see. But all he saw was Mrs. Jimerson, 
sitting stolidly at her window, apparently uncon¬ 
cerned, and intent upon her beadwork. Then 
all the younger lumberjacks, washing up and 
primping, unobserved, as they thought, crept 
out, one by one, and took a walk past the lodge, 
while the older and more experienced men hid 
behind trees and guyed them. 

Tom resented their behavior, and that night he 
spoke his mind. 

“Now, see here, men,” he said, “I won’t stand 

for any monkey-shioe business regarding this 
160 


THE CONFLICT 


161 


woman, whoever she is, that’s come to hang out 
with Mrs. Jimerson. Nobody asked my per¬ 
mission for her to come here, and I don’t want 
her in camp; hut so long’s she’s here, she’s got 
to be treated decent.” 

“Not a one of us ’ud fail in respect to a lady,” 
spoke up one of the older lumberjacks. “What 
d’ye say, boys?” 

A clamorous shout of “Naw” was the unani¬ 
mous reply. Lenoir alone remained silent. Then 
he jumped to his feet, kissed the tips of his 
fingers, and exclaimed: “All ze same, by Gar, 
I love ze ladies!” 

He dodged a rubber boot by a few inches, 
while from a corner, where Paltz was sitting, 
nursing his bandaged arm, rose the query: 
“What about the Injins?” 

Chief Orlando, who had been sitting quietly 
whittling by the stove, rose, and said: “Strange 
woman is pale-face—no half-breed, and she safe 
in Indian camp as little papoose. She can go 
and come with the daughters of the Senecas, my 
people, when she likes. She is a friend of the 
Indian, and her path is safe.” 

Tom turned to him. “What do you know 
about her?” he asked indifferently. 


162 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Mrs. Jimerson she tell one of my people that 
woman very tired, and sick—up here.” He 
tapped his forehead as he spoke. “Mrs. Jimer¬ 
son she bring her from New York for her health. 
She pay for her food and shelter by making 
beadwork. Mrs. Jimerson say she like her, and 
she can stay long as she likes.” 

There was no change in the expression of 
Tom’s features during this recital. In thought, 
however, he was matching himself against the 
odds, calling forth every quality that could aid 
him in the test—the test to play the game white. 

“All the same,” he remarked, “I wish she’d 
picked out some other camp. I got no use for 
women. I’d trade any one of ’em for a bottle 
of hootch. But she’s here, and like the Crazy 
Kid’s bitch, she’s helpless. And she’s got to be 
let alone.” He raised his voice. “I hope my 
meaning’s clear, men,” he concluded sharply, 
and then stamped out of the bunkhouse, the 
Chief following a few minutes later. 

After their departure, Paltz spoke up. “His 
meanin’s clear to me all right,” he grumbled. 
“He wants this woman fur hisself.” 

“Don’t you believe it,” came in guttural tones 
from one of the bunks. “The Wolf hates the 


THE CONFLICT 


163 


sight of ’em, an’ he’ll run this woman out o’ camp 
as sure as a log bumps down a hill.” 

Later, after his men had all turned in for the 
night, Tom sat alone in his log shack. Presently 
he walked to the window. A single light glim¬ 
mered through the dark tracery of trees at Mrs. 
Jimerson’s window. The significance of that 
light held him for a moment spellbound, then he 
turned away sullenly, with a smothered oath. 

So far Anne had avoided meeting any of the 
woodsmen; she timed her rambles in the woods, 
and her excursions around the edge of the lake 
in Mrs. Jimerson’s canoe, when she knew the 
men were engaged in swamping and felling. On 
rainy days she kept to the shack. 

The white man’s camp she viewed with a 
certain distrust. She had never forgotten the 
antagonism of the Wolf’s eyes, and she had 
gleaned enough from her companion’s gossip to 
realize that he was savage and cruel to his men; 
that they both feared and hated him; and that 
he had no use for women. This latter knowledge 
stirred her more than anything else. No doubt 
he was opposed to her presence in the camp. 
Secretly she longed for a chance to defy him; 
to return to him doublefold the hate and con- 


164 


FIRES OF FATE 


tempt he had flung at her with his lips and eyes. 

Little by little the influence of Mrs. Jimerson 
worked upon Anne’s pliable nature. She seemed 
to thrive on this semi-barbaric life in the wilder¬ 
ness as if she had lapsed into a primitive state. 
She took no reckoning of time except as the sun 
rose and set; she would sit stolidly engaged in 
beadwork; and she ate only when she felt 
hungry. 

Tanned by the elements, her dark complexion 
took on a deeper, duskier hue. She dressed now 
like Mrs. Jimerson, even to the bead-embroidered 
leggings, and wore her jet black hair in two 
plaits, with a fillet of wampum. 

She never tired of hearing the Indian woman 
recite the legends of her people, and she picked 
up broken bits of her quaint language quite 
readily. Her needle flashed like a firefly, and 
her fingers were nimble at the bead-loom. In 
the daily output she outstripped any Indian 
woman in the camp. 

“Wolf Killer very bad man,” Mrs. Jimerson 
remarked one day as they sat stringing beads. 
“The Wolf go to House of Torment when he 
dies.” 

“I hope so,” said Anne, vindictively. 


THE CONFLICT 165 

Mrs. Jimerson believed that there were two 
roads in life: one to the Home of the Great 
Spirit, the other to the House of Torment, while 
Good and Evil spirits stood at the fork of the 
road. “Straight road not much traveled,” she 
commented sagely; “evil road so much traveled 
grass will not grow.” 

Anne was sorry she had entered into the con¬ 
versation, for she sensed that it would lead to an 
emotional outbreak. It had not taken her long 
to discover that under the stupid placidity of 
Mrs. Jimerson was a cankerous sore—the gnaw¬ 
ing canker of revenge. In her heart was the mad 
desire to avenge a husband’s death, and when 
she would give in to it, her emotions would run 
riot. 

True enough, Mrs. Jimerson cast aside her 
work, and began to pace the floor. Then she 
squatted in front of the fireplace, and rocked 
her body to and fro, chanting mournfully. 

Anne sought to calm her. “Why make your¬ 
self so miserable? Have you forgotten that we 
are to pay a visit to the Indian camp to-day?” 
Then she repeated what Mrs. Jimerson had once 
said to her: “Do not stir up revenge, for it will 
never sleep again.” 


166 


FIRES OF FATE 


The Indian woman really had the mind of a 
child in the body of an adult, and she soon 
responded to Anne’s solicitations. Standing in 
the center of the room, she told an Indian legend 
of revenge. 

“I will tell you story of Sa-geh-jo-wa of the 
Senecas, royal line of tribes, my own people,” 
she began. “Many years ago, before white man 
hear great noise of falling waters at Niagara, 
Seneca nation had bad enemy, Illinois. One 
day Sa-geh-jo-wa and old woman they look for 
herbs in woods, and Illinois warriors took them 
captives, whipped them, drove them far into 
strange country. Old woman too weak. They 
tortured her, left her dying. She cried out to 
boy: ‘Avenge my blood, and promise me that 
you will never cease to be a Seneca.’ She died. 
Then boy said to Illinois warriors in his own 
language: ‘I never forget what you have done 
to my people. I never forget the cruelty. If I 
am spared, you will lose your scalps.’ ” 

Mrs. Jimerson spoke partly in her own tongue 
and partly in English, and her rapid yet graceful 
gestures easily translated her meaning to the 
listener, who sat entranced. 

“Illinois warriors adopted Sa-geh-jo-wa,” she 


THE CONFLICT 


167 


went on. “They little thought how deep the tor¬ 
tures had burned into his heart. He grew to be 
a man. He married the Chieftain’s daughter. 
They thought he had forgotten, but in his heart 
were ever fresh memories of his wrongs—and 
wrongs no Indian ever forgets.” There was a 
flame in her eyes as she spoke. “Again the 
Illinois went against Senecas in battle. The 
man, in whose heart burned revenge, led the war¬ 
riors. And he betrayed them, led them to their 
death. Three hundred scalps was glory enough 
for Sa-geh-jo-wa. To this day his name is 
honored among the Senecas.” 

The recital seemed to relieve Mrs. Jimerson. 
Later in the day she accompanied Anne on her 
first visit to the Indian camp. On their return 
Anne walked in advance of the Indian woman. 
The tang of the wilderness, of the primitive, was 
all about her; there was new red blood in her 
veins, the result of rarefied air and the healing 
of out-of-doors. She had looked into an Indian’s 
heart, and there she had seen the avenger of 
blood; she had heard the lament of the Senecas, 
cheated and despoiled. And over all was the 
terrible shadow of the Wolf Killer, this unlet¬ 
tered Czar of the timberland. 


168 


FIRES OF FATE 


From a rise in the ground she could see the 
lumbermen at work; strong, hairy men playing 
with the giants of the forest as children play with 
toys. Suddenly above the distant hum and rattle 
of the cable drums she heard the warning shout of 
“Timber!” A tree crashed to the ground. A 
moment of silence followed; then the wood 
echoed with shouts of alarm. 

“Something’s happened.” She expressed her 
fear to Mrs. Jimerson, who had just caught up 
with her; and in spite of labored breath, the 
Indian woman hurried on to investigate. She 
returned about ten minutes later, and between 
gasps and puffs, said: “Big tree fall on Crazy 
Kid, kitchen boy. Man says Crazy Kid done 
for.” 

Anne shrugged her shoulders in a disinterested 
manner, and picked up the trail to the lodge. 
Then the thought came to her—what could these 
men of the forest know about first-aid to the 
injured? In her mind’s eye she could see 
the helpless lad, crushed and bleeding. She 
would break down the barriers of aloofness and 
go to his aid at once; and she would allow no 
obstacle to keep her from what she now con¬ 
sidered her duty. 

Her unexpected appearance in the logging 


THE CONFLICT 


169 


camp came like the bursting of a bombshell. 
Several of the men directed her to the bunkhouse, 
where the injured boy had been removed; and 
one of the lumberjacks got so excited over the 
turn of events, and in running forward and open¬ 
ing the door for Anne, as for a queen, that he 
barely escaped swallowing whole his quid of 
tobacco. Mrs. Jimerson brought up the rear. 

The Crazy Kid lay moaning in pain and 
delirium in a lower bunk as Anne entered. The 
men with one accord fell back. As one of them 
expressed himself later: “Dammit, if I didn’t 
think it was one of God’s angels droppin’ down 
on us, bin so long since I laid eyes on a real 
woman.” 

Anne knelt beside the bunk, and smoothed 
back the tangled hair. One of the men came 
forward. “He ’pears to be dyin’, ma’am,” he 
said hoarsely. 

“A basin of cold water, quick,” she ordered, 
“and some hot water, too.” 

Several of the men pitched in to help Mrs. 
Jimerson, including Lenoir, who brought the hot 
water in a jiffy. 

A hasty examination and Anne found that the 
lad’s left arm and shoulder were the most 
severely injured; his arm lay limp by his side. 


170 


FIRES OF FATE 


Ripping away part of his shirt, she bathed his 
shoulder and arm, applying liniment and using 
the bandages. There did not seem to be any 
bones broken. He might be internally injured, 
but from his actions she believed him to be suffer¬ 
ing mostly from shock. 

He responded quickly to her treatment. Pres¬ 
ently he lay quite still. When she felt sure the 
boy had fallen asleep, she took a more intimate 
view of her surroundings. 

She tried not to appear conscious under the 
battery of eyes, and returned the piercing 
glances of the loggers with a look of confidence 
in their rugged manhood. One man alone stood 
out as repulsive. She cringed a little when Paltz, 
the blacksmith, came forward. 

“ ’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said gruffly, “but 
we’re all much obliged to you fur what you’ve 
done for the kid. But he’s plumb nutty, an* 
better off dead.” 

“Naw!” came in a whispered chorus. 

“Waal, anyway,” Paltz continued, “it brought 
you down to the camp, an’ I must say, ma’am, 
that jist lookin’ at you is sure some treat.” 

A burst of remonstrance followed this speech, 
and Paltz was pulled back by several of the men. 
Then the room grew suddenly still. Mrs. Jimer- 


THE CONFLICT 


171 


son glanced at the door, and gave a warning 
grunt—“Ugh!” Anne sensed intuitively that 
she was once more about to face the Wolf. She 
was sitting on a box by the boy’s side, with her 
back to the door. Her blanket lay loose around 
her; the glory of her dark tresses, the tanned 
richness of her face, with its sharp-cut profile, 
shone refulgently in the glow from the fire. She 
heard the heavy tread of boots as the Wolf 
walked to the center of the room; she could feel 
his eyes upon her. Utterly ignoring his presence, 
she leaned over to adjust a cold bandage around 
the sleeping lad’s head. 

The Wolf advanced another step or two. 
Anne half-turned round. “Quiet, please!” she 
commanded. 

“Guess you don’t know who you’re talking 
to.” Tom broke the tension with an angry flush 
mounting his cheeks. 

“I can make a pretty good guess,” returned 
Anne. Then she waited almost breathlessly for 
his reply. 

“You got no right here,” said Tom decisively. 
“We can look after the kid all right. What d’ye 
say, boys?” 

There was no response from the men, only 
surly looks. Tom was quick to realize that he 


172 


FIRES OF FATE 


faced a wall of rebuke in their sullen silence. 
It seemed to intensify his brutish, aggressive 
quality all the more. 

“I say—get out—damn you!” 

The words were no sooner spoken than Anne 
shot up from her seat. “Have you no considera¬ 
tion for this boy?” Her lips were white and 
drawn as she faced him. 

“You got no business here,” Tom came back 
at her; “and nobody comes to this camp unless 
they’re invited. This is my land, and my word 
is law. We don’t want any strange women hang¬ 
ing round here, so you better vamose.” 

Anne wavered in livid anger. “I was told 
that you were savage, cruel,” she exclaimed, “but 
no one ever told me you were a coward. These 
men fear you. If they didn’t, they’d stand up 
now to defend me, a woman, against your cruelty 
and insults.” She was approaching him step by 
step. “I’m not afraid of you, and I’ll prove to 
them that you are—a coward.” 

With a sudden movement, she raised her hand 
and struck him full in the face. “You coward— 
you brute!” she exclaimed. “You can’t drive me 
out of this bunkhouse. I’m going to stay by this 
boy’s side until he is past all danger. If he dies, 
his death will be at your door.” 


THE CONFLICT 


173 


The Crazy Kid, aroused from his sleep, started 
up in his bunk, then sank back with a cry of pain. 
Anne was by his side instantly. She smoothed 
his forehead, his hair, and kissed him upon the 
cheek. Presently he lapsed into repose, holding 
her hand in a tight, appealing grip. 

Tom stood with bowed head, in the hot flush 
of shame, with bitter scorn for his own lack of 
judgment. By one swift stroke of Fate, his 
leadership, his domineering brutality, had been 
undermined. Insubordination among his men 
was something he had ever feared. 

He faced them now, cowed, stripped of his 
robes of dictatorship; he had been whipped by 
a woman. 

Turning upon his heel, he slouched from the 
bunkhouse, a man without courage. He flung 
himself out into the silence of the camp as night 
swept swift-winged about him. He walked on 
aimlessly. 

After a little he came to himself. The crack¬ 
ling of dead leaves caused him to turn suddenly. 
Paltz was close upon his trail. Even at this dis¬ 
tance he caught the gleam of the torch of battle 
in the vengeful blacksmith’s eyes. Then he saw 
red; while in the back of his head a small, still 
voice cried: “Kill!” 


174 


FIRES OF FATE 


They fought like two starved wolves over a 
morsel of meat. They charged, and counter¬ 
charged. The frozen ground was torn up by 
their hobnailed boots. The wind died down. 
The silence of the woods was broken only by the 
shuffling of feet, deep, labored breathing, and 
smothered oaths. The blood began to trickle 
from the blacksmith’s nose. The sight and smell 
of blood seemed to goad them on. It was a battle 
to the death. 

Tom, with a powerful blow, finally gained the 
advantage over his opponent. The beast was in 
his fists, the beast that knows or shows no mercy. 
A well-directed blow over the heart sent the 
blacksmith staggering. He came back fiercely, 
but Tom met his approach with a rain of upper¬ 
cuts that brought a heavy groan of pain. Paltz 
caught at the air, then fell like a log upon the 
hard earth. 

Tom stood over his prostrate body with a 
triumphant glitter in his eyes. Paltz struggled 
to rise, then sank back in a sitting position. 

“The woman’s mine now—you understand?” 
roared Tom. 

Paltz turned up a bruised and blood-stained 
face. “I’m licked,” he muttered; “she’s yourn.” 
Then he curled up on his side, groaning. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 

T OM paced his lonely shack in strange rest¬ 
lessness, as the thoughs of the woman de¬ 
sired fired his soul. She belonged to him 
now by right of conquest, and yet somehow she 
had stripped him of all his power. The sting of 
her blow in the face had come like the lash of a 
whip. 

He stumbled out again into the night, with sig¬ 
nals of breaking dawn leaping from the distant 
line of mountains, and did not stop until he stood 
within a stone’s throw of the darkened cabin that 
sheltered her. The very mystery of her seemed 
to drive him to desperation. 

He returned to his shack just as a streak of 
dawn came up the valley and touched his face as 
with fire. The woman triumphant had conquered 
his soul. The supremacy of his life in the woods 
meant nothing to him now. He cursed himself 
for his weakness, and laughed; a laugh that left 
him with the agony of pain. 

175 


176 FIRES OF FATE 

In the days that followed, Anne carefully 
avoided meeting him. She nursed the Crazy Kid 
back to health, while the woodsmen, with torn 
shirts to mend and bruised and lacerated fingers 
to bandage, claimed her attention and sympathy. 

The more she thought of it the more she be¬ 
came convinced that the Wolf was entirely within 
his rights in his rebuke to her. She was an inter¬ 
loper, and the very roof that sheltered her was 
his own. Mrs. Jimerson held no rights in the 
lodge; she simply camped there in defiance of the 
man, and paid no rent. 

She recalled his exact words. 44 Vamose” 
meant to go. Where could she go? She shud¬ 
dered. And finally a feeling of dependence, of 
protection, in this strange specimen of man, sud¬ 
denly engulfed her. She had blundered. She 
had erred in her judgment of him. He had 
struck the right key; it was she who had lost the 
true sound, and broken the harmony. The men 
had endured many wrongs at his hands. She 
realized, in justice to the man, that it was neces¬ 
sary to hold them in leash, to beat their unruly 
souls into subjection. And now the tables had 
been turned against him. She knew these woods¬ 
men hated him to a man. Distrust and treachery 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 


177 


were in the very air. Her intuitiveness sensed 
it as the fox scents the oncoming of its doom. 
Like dogs they were biting at his heels. Had her 
mistrust of the man, her blunder, been fatal? 

These were some of Anne’s thoughts as she 
stood silently in the path, midway between the 
camp and the lodge. As she turned to retrace her 
footsteps to the lodge, she glimpsed indistinctly 
a movement in the camp that immediately 
aroused her curiosity. She walked ahead a few 
paces, then paused; and again concealing herself, 
strained her eyes through the mass of spruce 
green. 

A heavy mist, rising from the lake, was fast 
cloaking the camp. She saw the men filing into 
the bunkhouse, in twos and threes. It was too 
early for supper. The Wolf, she knew, had gone 
into his cabin. Knowing his attitude of constant 
watchfulness over his men, it occurred to her that 
they might he calling a meeting without his sanc¬ 
tion. 

She remained in this position for half an hour, 
with distrust of the men growing by leaps and 
bounds in her heart. Yet the smoke from the 
cook camp showed that Lenoir was slapping up 
the evening meal, and she espied the Crazy Kid, 


178 


FIRES OF FATE 


hurrying across the open space near the bunk- 
house, carrying an armful of cordwood. 

A splash of rain caused her to seek cover. Just 
as she reached the lodge, the floodgates of the 
skies seemed to open. Then for two long days 
it rained incessantly. The camp lay dismal and 
deserted; not a man to be seen. 

Anne felt her incapacity to do things, and grew 
restless under the drab monotony of rain, which 
was dissipating the winter’s snow and tearing 
great gullies in Mrs. Jimerson’s acreage. It 
trickled through the roof; the damp logs refused 
to burn, and the smoke blew down the chimney 
in choking gusts. 

. . . Suddenly, out of the mist of rain, she 
espied the Crazy Kid approaching the lodge from 
the side. He appeared to be covering up his 
tracks, advancing cautiously, with frightened 
backward glances. She welcomed him as the first 
connecting link with what had been transpiring in 
camp during the rainy spell. 

“You saved my life, Daughter of the Moon,” 
he was saying now, “for which I thank the sun 
and the stars. And the Wolf, he save my poor 
dog from that wicked Paltz. I like you both. 
You are my pals. Lenoir he makes corncakes 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 


179 


that I like, and he gives me plenty of molasses. 
But why does not the big yellow moon and the 
star come together?” 

Anne smiled knowingly. “Tell me about 
Paltz,” she urged. 

“Paltz he bring all the men to bunkhouse two 
days ago while the Wolf stay in his cabin,” the 
lad replied. “Paltz he make ready to go off in 
rowboat down the rapids, with Indian guide, to 
get police.” 

“Police?” Anne echoed eagerly. 

“Paltz say the Wolf strike him on arm with 
iron rod when he save my dog, and he can work 
no more. So he get police and send Wolf to jail. 
And then, you see, Paltz he will be boss of the 
camp—of me and you.” 

There was a little crescendo of anxiety in 
Anne’s exclamation of alarm. “Yet you say 
Paltz is still in camp?” 

The Crazy Kid gave a ringing laugh. “Paltz 
he sneak out in rain to get rowboat, and all ready 
to start, but boat will not go. Oars gone. The 
Wolf he hide ’em. That made all the men very 
mad. They decide to work no more for the Wolf. 
They all quit.” 

“Mutiny!” Anne said under her breath. 


180 


FIRES OF FATE 


The boy continued: “Wolf he shut himself up 
in his cabin, and he dare the men to do their 
worst. He threaten to shoot anybody who comes 
near. But Paltz and the men say they going to 
get 11™..” He held out his hands in a piteous ap¬ 
peal. “The Daughter of the Moon must help 
the star get away from the black clouds. You 
must help Wolf. If he is killed, then Paltz kill 
my dog.” He burst into tears. 

Anne sent the Crazy Kid back to the camp, 
with instructions to keep his visit to her a secret; 
and in the advent of an attack upon the Wolf in 
his cabin, he was to signal with a pine torch. 

The signal came about eight o’clock that night. 
Simultaneously she heard several shots, and then 
the loud voices of men. She made her way toward 
the flaring signal, feeling her way by instinct. 
Somehow she seemed to possess the instinct of 
the savage that leads through trackless places as 
unerringly as the compass of a mariner points the 
course through uncharted seas. 

The Crazy Kid saw her, and hastily extin¬ 
guished the torch. She stood waiting for him to 
come up, listening anxiously to every breath of 
the night that was likely to bring further news. 
Just as the lad reached her side, she thought she 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 


181 


heard the murmuring of voices, this time in the 
direction of the lake. 

“They’ve got ’im,” moaned the Crazy Kid. 
“Now, Paltz he kill my dog.” 

“Where are they taking him?” she asked 
tremulously. 

Again that murmur of voices; this time more 
distant. 

“They’re taking him to the lake,” said the boy. 
“He’s bound with ropes. I heard Paltz say they 
mean to tie him to a raft, and send him over the 
falls, down into the rapids.” 

Anne shivered. No one could survive the falls, 
called the “Mouth of Hell,” by the Indians; and 
even if the Wolf outlived the falls, he would be 
dashed to death in the rapids. She trained her 
ear in the deep silence of the early evening. Only 
the sough of the wind in the tall cedars could be 
heard. 

“Where’s Lenoir?” 

“Cook locked up in the kitchen camp,” came 
the agitated reply. 

“Go to Lenoir at once,” Anne ordered with a 
slow, deliberate voice: “release him, and tell him 
to come to the lake, to the sorting-jack. I’ll be 
waiting for him there. You understand?” 


182 


FIRES OF FATE 


The Crazy Kid pointed skyward. “See, the 
moon has chased away the black clouds from the 
star.” 

The clouds had parted; and far above shone 
the glimmering light of one star. 

“Maybe if Paltz gets to be boss you’ll need 
this.” As he spoke the lad drew a small knife, 
sheathed in leather, from his pocket. Anne ac¬ 
cepted it tremblingly, and thrust it under her 
girdle. 

They parted, the Crazy Kid making his way 
stealthily to the kitchen camp, while Anne started 
off to find the path to the lake. It was now a 
race to win. She stumbled on, losing the path, 
then finding it again; and so on and on, with one 
thought in her mind, to undo what she had done, 
to save a man helpless against the onrush of grim 
fate. 

She paused as the grayish waters of the lake 
stretched out before her. The wharf of planks 
and logs was black with men; they seemed like 
spectral figures in the dim light of the clearing 
night sky. She could hear the muttering of 
voices above the swish of the water upon the 
pebbly shore, for the lake was pulsing and seeth¬ 
ing from the great flood. Cakes of ice, logs and 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 


183 


trees, torn from their roots by the relentless 
mountain streams, were swirling toward the falls 
and rapids. 

She stood in breathless deliberation. She dare 
not risk being seen. Creeping close to the ground 
she made her way toward the sorting-jack. She 
was close enough now to see what the men were 
doing, and to distinguish their voices. She heard 
a deep voice, that sounded like Paltz’s, cry: “All 
ready! Let ’er go!” Then something blackish 
shot from under the side of the wharf. It was 
the raft with its human freight. 

Shuddering, she waited until the men filed 
back to camp, keeping her eyes upon the raft, 
floating slowly toward the center of the lake. 
Determined to defeat the cruel and cowardly act 
of the loggers, and without fear or thought of 
self, she crept down to the deserted wharf. 
Beached underneath the near end was Mrs. Jim- 
erson’s canoe. With strength she never dreamed 
she possessed, she dragged the canoe from under 
the wharf. 

The clouds had rolled back like a scroll, and 
the myriads of stars made the grim waters and the 
distant raft dimly discernible. She put all of her 
latent strength into her strokes as the canoe shot 


184 


FIRES OF FATE 


out upon the troubled waters. She had not gone 
far when she heard voices on shore, and she was 
barely able to distinguish two figures running 
along the edge of the water. Lenoir and the 
Crazy Kid had come too late. She was headed 
downstream, and she had the intuitive feeling 
that they were following her trend. 

Five minutes of tense, steady paddling, and 
she was within easy sight of the raft. She could 
even discern the motionless figure stretched out 
upon it. She gave a cry of assurance, and above 
the splash of her paddle she thought she heard a 
reply. Then came a louder and stranger sound; 
at first it was only a sigh, then it increased into a 
hissing, and finally became a roar. With sicken¬ 
ing dread, she realized that the raft was fast 
approaching the falls—the Mouth of Hell. 

The canoe had been caught in the swirling, 
swollen current, and was being carried swiftly 
downstream. All around her were cakes of ice 
and the floating debris of a flood. The next mo¬ 
ment and the canoe was whirling around like a 
cork; the ice and logs threatened to crush it. She 
tried to paddle against the rush of water; and as 
she did so, she saw that the raft had become 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 185 

lodged against a ledge of rocks at the brink of 
the falls. 

Her aim now was to steer the canoe clear of 
the ice and logs and reach the raft. There was a 
chance of being marooned there until help came. 
Before she could shift her position and use her 
paddle for this purpose, the canoe was picked up 
like a toy and pitched sidelong against the rocks. 
Here it became wedged. 

The raft was only a few feet away. Creeping 
cautiously to fore, she reached over the side of 
the canoe, and catching hold of a protruding rock, 
half crawled from the boat. Judging the dis¬ 
tance at a glance, she made a leap and landed 
upon the raft, which, with a sickening, sinking 
feeling, gave in to the added weight of her body. 
She held on to a chain, while the icy water and 
rising spray drenched her through. Terrorized, 
she saw the canoe, relieved of its burden, swept 
over the falls. The roar in her ears was deaf¬ 
ening. 

She drew herself up alongside the Wolf, who 
lay upon his back, his arms and legs bound by 
ropes to the planks. She called to him, but there 
was no reply. He lay motionless, like a dead 


man. 


186 


FIRES OF FATE 


Then she remembered the knife, and taking 
it from her girdle she unsheathed it with her teeth 
and one hand. While the raft listed to this side 
and then to that, and the mad waters tugged and 
tore at it, she sawed at the ropes. But it was not 
until she had freed his arms that he opened his 
eyes. He sat upright, gazed at her as in a dream. 
Instantly, he seemed to sense what she had done 
and the danger they were in. 

All at once, Anne’s strength failed her. She 
felt the Wolf’s arm close around her. He had 
caught hold of the chain with the disengaged 
hand. “Hold on to me!” she heard him say. 
His voice sounded far away. 

She drew herself up closer to him, clung to his 
wet body with clutching hands. She could feel 
his labored breath upon her face, wet with spray. 

At this moment, the raft swung round broad¬ 
side to the current. There was a creaking of 
timber, and a straining of the chains. “God help 
us!” Tom’s voice rose clear and distinct above 
the roar of waters. 

As the raft was swept over the falls, Anne ex¬ 
perienced the dizzy sense of being caught up in 
the air, then ground under a smothering rush of 
water. She never lost consciousness, and her 


THE MOUTH OF HELL 


187 


hold never relaxed; it was the clutch of death. 
But they were miraculously spared from death. 
Tossed about in the tumbling waters, the raft was 
shot up clear of the rapids, and thrown upon a 
shelving edge of rocks. 

What happened after that was only faintly 
heard and seen by Anne, for the reaction had set 
in, and it seemed more terrible than the actual 
danger. She knew that Lenoir and the Crazy 
Kid had reached the foot of the falls in time to 
carry her up the rocky slope; and that the boy 
had wrapped his coat about her shoulders to keep 
her warm. 

“When ze men come back to camp,” Lenoir 
was telling Tom, “Paltz he try to be ze boss. 
Zay kick him out of ze bunkhouse, zip-bang! 
Ze men veery, veery sorry for what zay done.” 

As he concluded, the dark rocky defile echoed 
with the shouts of the approaching, conscience- 
stricken loggers, shouts that inspired confidence 
once more in the breast of their deposed leader; 
while the light from their lanterns and pine 
torches illumined the walls of gray stone and the 
whitish, churning waters. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE LIFTING VEIL 

T HE morning dawned crisp and cold, with 
fantastic figures of frost on Mrs. Jimer- 
son’s windows. At noon there was a light 
fall of snow, and the trees stood gaunt in draper¬ 
ies of purest white. Real winter had come at 
last. 

Anne had started out early for the Indian 
camp with a basket of provisions. She had come 
out of her trying experience without scratch or 
bruise, and Mrs. Jimerson’s home remedies had 
saved her from the serious complications that 
often follow exposure. She was bundled up to 
the ears, for the air was snappy, and as she hur¬ 
ried along, the Wolf seemed to follow her like 
her shadow. 

And all the time she was thinking of him, a 
voice kept repeating somewhere in the back of 
her head: “You are not for him—not for any 

man.” Yet she lived through again and again 
188 


THE LIFTING VEIL 189 

that moment, as they were poised on the brink of 
eternity. 

Stooping, as she passed under an evergreen 
archway, radiant with frostwork and glistening 
like silver in the morning sun, she raised her eyes 
to find the Wolf standing in her path, cold and 
unmoved. A moment of tense silence ensued, 
then she said the first thing that came to her: “Do 
you always start to work so early in the morn¬ 
ing ?” And after she had said it, she thought it 
a rather foolish question. 

“This is late for me.” Tom smiled as he spoke. 

“Oh!” she gave a little smothered gasp. 

“Anything wrong, ma’am?” he asked. 

“Nothing, except that you smiled, and it star¬ 
tled me.” 

“I’m surprised myself,” Tom admitted, “for 
I laid smiling away on the shelf years ago.” 

“I’ve always felt that there was some reason 
for-” 

“For what?” 

“For your being what you are,” was the calm 
response. 

“It’s hard for a man to control his feelings,” 
he said. 

“I’m afraid I lost control of mine that day in 



190 FIRES OF FATE 

the bunkhouse. I’m very sorry now for what I 
did.” 

“I didn’t mind the slap, ma’am,” Tom re¬ 
joined; “it was what you said.” 

“I was unjustly cruel,” Anne admitted. 

Tom had leaned his axe against a tree. He took 
off his glove, and extended his hand. “Ain’t you 
going to let me thank you for what you did the 
other night?” Adding, as she hesitated: “God, 
that was some nerve! I never thought it was in 
a woman to do a thing like that.” 

Anne touched his hand lightly. He looked at 
her curiously. “Afraid of me?” he asked. 

“It was not so long ago that I not only feared 
but hated you,” was the reply. 

“Was it hate that sent you out in the canoe to 
save me?” 

“No; just an overpowering sense of duty— 
and pity.” 

“Pity, eh?” 

“Yes; in your extremity,” Anne responded. 
“It didn’t seem fair to me to send a man, no 
matter how cruel and despicable he had been, to 
his death, without a chance of defending himself. 
It seemed so unlawful.” 


THE LIFTING VEIL 


191 


“There ain’t no law in the woods, ma’am,” 
said Tom. “The best man wins.” 

“I see you still hold a very high opinion of 
yourself,” Anne put rather sharply. “Besides, 
I was under the impression that the woods, the 
great out-of-doors, made men more charitable 
in their views on life.” 

Tom shook his head. “We make our laws to 
suit ourselves,” he declared. “Here a man stands 
or falls by his own character. When a man is 
imposed upon he fights back to get even, and he’s 
got to use his fists or a gun. What may seem 
cruel to you is second nature with me. As a 
woodsman, I’ve been imposed upon by big men 
of money in tho cities, and the treatment I got 
from them is the same I hand out to my men. 
I’ve had a rough deal, and I got to take it out 
on somebody.” 

“I hope you will never have to pay a debt of 
ingratitude to a woman,” Anne ventured cau¬ 
tiously. 

“I’ve held a grudge against a woman, a girl, 
for some years,” Tom replied. 

“Who was she?” Anne asked eagerly. 

“I knew you’d ask that,” Tom grinned. “And 


192 


FIRES OF FATE 


Ill tell you if you tell me who you are. That’s 
square, ain’t it?” 

Anne shrank back as if pained. “Please don’t 
ask me that,” she begged. She pressed her hand 
to her forehead. “I know this much, that I— 
I’ve always been a good woman—” there was a 
pathetic little break in her voice, “and that I’m 
white.” 

“Well, up in these parts, nobody makes it their 
business to care a damn about anybody’s color 
or morals.” As Tom spoke, and rather unguard¬ 
edly, he leaned over to pick up his axe. When he 
looked up, Anne had slipped away quietly over 
the carpet of snow. He followed her down the 
path. She stared at him in silence as he stood 
bare-headed and half-ashamed before her. 

“Don’t leave me like that,” he pleaded. “I 
know you don’t belong to my kind, and you must 
excuse me if I talk a little rough at times. I 
ain’t a pious man, and I certainly ain’t got no 
tact with women. I guess that’s why I lost the 
other one, and I’ve been soured on life ever since.” 

Anne regarded him a moment with cool reflec¬ 
tion, then she said: “I value your friendship, Tom 
Goodheart.” 

He looked at her in frank amazement; it was 


THE LIFTING VEIL 


193 


the first time she had called him by his right name. 

“I’m sure we shall be friends always,” she went 
on softly; “but there is something you should 
know, and I tell you now—that I am not for you 
—not for any man.” She repeated the words 
automatically. 

Tom stood fumbling nervously with his crown¬ 
less hat. “I ain’t much on being just friends with 
women,” he said; “but I think I ought to know 
your name.” 

Anne looked at him surprised. 

“If you’ve no objections I’d like to call you, 
Woman—just Woman.” 

“I’ve no objections,” she smiled in reply; and 
she was gone before he could get in another word. 

Whenever they met after that, Anne remained 
always the woman, veiled and resistant, but there 
came a day when she realized they both stood on 
dangerous ground. 

March was going; rivulets, released by the 
melting snow, were dancing down the purplish 
ridges. The rapids, with lashing waters, seemed 
impatient for the spring drive of logs. 

This particular afternoon they stood under a 
lonesome pine, on the far edge of the lake, where 
they had wandered. 


194 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Seems to me you’re growing more particular 
every day,” Tom was saying, his eyes like glow¬ 
ing coals set in the face of some roughly-sculp¬ 
tured Viking. 

“I believe in you—I trust you. Is that not 
enough?” Anne returned plaintively. 

“No,” thundered Tom. He looked at her 
steadily, his fists clenched. “Woman, do you 
want to drive me crazy?” he burst out. 

Anne stood her ground; she had feared this 
hour. The violence of his passion was shaking 
this young giant of the woods like a storm that 
uproots trees, centuries old, and flings them aside 
like straws. Could she stand up much longer 
against it ? Something in his eyes showed her that 
the time for pleasant and placid companionship 
had gone. The barrier of friendship that she had 
built was in danger of being broken down; she 
could no longer deceive herself or him. 

“You wouldn’t dare, Tom,” she said as she 
looked him calmly in the eyes. And the effect 
of her confiding voice was electrical. Tom 
moaned audibly, and turned away. 

Anne gave a little hysterical laugh. “I knew 
we couldn’t go on like this.” She turned as if 
to go. 


THE LIFTING VEIL 


195 


“Em sorry, Woman,” Tom said huskily, fol¬ 
lowing her. “I lost my head, I reckon.” He 
threw up his hands. “I’m helpless.” 

“If you feel that way about it,” Anne sug¬ 
gested, “perhaps we had better not see each other 
again.” 

Tom shuddered a little, then gave in mutely. 

She had not expected him to give in so easily. 
“I realize that we can’t go on like this forever. 
Our friendship has been such a beautiful thing 
to me, like a sunset, or a night sky filled with 
stars.” 

“You don’t mean to cut loose altogether? You 
don’t mean that?” he asked. 

“That’s up to you, Tom,” she faltered. 

Tom hesitated a moment before replying. 
“Suppose I promise, well, not to lose my head 
again?” 

She glanced at him uneasily. “I’m almost 
afraid to trust you.” 

“No harm in trying,” he returned lightly. 

“I do need you as a friend,” Anne added. 
Then a moment of silence ensued. She started 
off on another subject. “It may be news to you 
to know that I’m to be made a, full-fledged mem¬ 
ber of the Senecas. I’m to go to the Indian camp 


196 


FIRES OF FATE 


to-morrow if the weather is clear. They're going 
to dance. And, oh, I love those little Indian 
children so! They are like swift-footed deer." 

“I like children, too," Tom sighed. “Often 
wish I had a son." 

“Too bad you must work while I’m having 
such a good time," Anne put in, tactfully. 

“I didn’t say anything about working," said 
Tom. “I’d be a fool if I did." 

“Then you can come, too?" Anne asked, inno¬ 
cently enough. “But remember, you are honor 
bound to keep your promise." 

Tom held out his hand, and his eyes lighted up 
as Anne took it. He held hers firmly as he said : 
“I mean to do right by you, Woman." 

Anne smiled. “Then we are still good 
friends?" 

Tom did not reply, but the resolute look in 
his eyes said more than words. 

The next day Anne paid her visit to the Indian 
camp, Mrs. Jimerson, ever her faithful compan¬ 
ion, following behind in a little dog trot, to keep 
pace with her. She prattled away as they walked 
along the trail, mostly about the Wolf. She 
found it soothed her to express her confidence, 
her trust, in him. Mrs. Jimerson kept nodding 


THE LIFTING VEIL 


197 


to this and that, and then she gave her a start 
by saying: “Chief Orlando he say heart of 
the Daughter of the Moon is free. But I say, 
she must be careful, so that she may go home with 
honor to the house of her husband.” 

Anne regarded her a moment in amazement. 
“But I’m not married,” she protested. “What¬ 
ever put such a foolish idea into your head?” 

“Last night Daughter of the Moon talk in her 
sleep,” was the disconcerting response. “You 
call for husband and for young son.” 

“But no one is responsible for things they say 
in their dreams,” rejoined Anne. “It worries 
me, hurts me, to hear you repeat such things. I 
love this life here in the wilderness, and I don’t 
want to know any other life but this.” 

She hurried on as if annoyed, while the Indian 
woman kept other revelations to herself. For 
two nights she had sat beside Anne’s cot and lis¬ 
tened to the strange mutterings of people and 
things in a world strangely apart from this in 
which she dwelt. Highly superstitious by nature, 
Mrs. Jimerson had reached the conclusion that 
the woman was bewitched. 

By the time they reached the camp, the clouds 
had rolled back, leaving a clear sapphire sky and 


198 


FIRES OF FATE 


a warm sun. Anne was welcomed by Chief 
Orlando at the door of his lodge while the natives 
looked on with welcoming and admiring eyes. 
She wore for the occasion her gayest calico dress, 
a brightly-striped blanket, and a red fillet that 
bound tight her dark tresses. The red and the 
sheen of the armlets and necklace of beads 
brought out the rich tan of her complexion. 

Tom marched into camp a few minutes after 
her arrival, and appeared disappointed, for he 
had missed her at the fork of the trail, a half mile 
back. She appeared not to see him, but she had 
a tremulous consciousness of his approach, and 
felt it like the closing in of four walls, from which 
there could be no escape. She avoided his glance 
when he came up. 

Her growing weakness alarmed her. His very 
presence was quickening her heart-throbs, and 
sending the red blood coursing madly through her 
veins. She never lost sight of him, however, dur¬ 
ing the ceremony. He stood close by, like a tall, 
grim, pine tree. It annoyed her even when the 
smoke, shifting with the west wind, veiled him 
from view momentarily. 

The ceremonial fire crackled, while flames of 
color shot from behind the bank of clouds in the 


THE LIFTING VEIL 


199 


west. Anne was the central figure, her face and 
figure painted in fire-gilt, like a barbaric prin¬ 
cess of long ago. The music of crooning voices 
rose above the accompaniment of a rattle. She 
heard the Chief speak in a loud voice: “Hail! 
Hail! Open your ears to what I have to say. 
The smoke of the fire bears our wishes to the 
Great Spirit.” 

After she had taken the vows of allegiance, 
the Chief made a pretence of slashing her wrist 
with his knife and sucking the blood from the 
wound. Thereupon all the members of the vari¬ 
ous tribes took a vow in which they pledged them¬ 
selves to avenge any harm that might come to the 
newly initiated member. The ceremony ended 
with a weird and fantastic dance, in which all the 
women and children participated. 

The valley rang vocal with barbaric songs. 
The thud of dancing feet, the sound of the rattle, 
the play of colors everywhere Anne looked— 
crimson, yellow, purple, and green, seemed to 
call forth all the latent barbaric restlessness of 
her nature. Finally, she stole from the confines 
of the ceremonial mount, under a screen of smoke 
from the smoldering fire. She cast about anx¬ 
iously for the Wolf, but he was nowhere to be 


200 


FIRES OF FATE 


seen. It was growing late. From one of the 
older Indian women, she learned that Mrs. Jim- 
erson had departed some time ago, and that the 
Wolf had sauntered off in the direction of the 
homeward trail. 

She hurried on, strangely stirred that he had 
left so abruptly. Before she plunged into the 
wilderness of stunted pine and oak, she paused 
and looked back, at the spectacle of the dancing 
figures silhouetted against the grandeur of de¬ 
scending day. She was one of these people now 
by adoption. She was a part of the silence and 
solitariness of the woods. More than that, there 
was a lawlessness rising within her which she 
could not overcome; a madness in her veins. 
Heretofore she had avoided the man whose brute 
strength was his only law. Now she was hurry¬ 
ing on wildly to meet him. 

She came upon Tom at the fork of the trail, 
where he stood with arms folded, like a statue of 
bronze. She came up to him quickly. ‘‘Why 
did you leave me like this?” she asked breath¬ 
lessly. “Why?” 

Tom’s chin was in the air, a faraway look in 
his eyes. “I reckoned I couldn’t trust myself,” 
he said. “I didn’t want to break faith.” 


THE LIFTING VEIL 


201 


Anne moved uneasily, then laid her hand upon 
his arm. “I can’t go any longer like this, Tom,” 
she said. “I take back all I said to you yesterday. 
I see now the falsity of our friendship. I’m just 
a woman, Tom—a woman in love—with you.” 
She paused a moment. “Now, you know!” 

There was no hesitation on Tom’s part. With 
a low cry, a cry of exultation, with veins hot and 
tingling, he clasped her in his arms, and held her 
so closely to him that she struggled for breath. 

About them the stillness of the woods; the 
murmur of voices in barbaric chants had died out. 
In the gloaming, shot with pulsing colors, Anne 
raised her face to his. 

“Just say T love you,’ ” Tom urged passion¬ 
ately; “that’s where I like to begin.” 

She echoed the words, vaguely, as in a dream. 

“You’re mine now for keeps, ain’t you, 
Woman?” 

“I’m yours, Tom—forever.” 

He gripped her tighter with savage strength, 
and just as he brought her lips to his—she could 
feel the hotness of them, she cried out, as if in 
pain. She struggled against the brute force that 
was crushing her. 

Wonderingly, he relaxed his hold; she lay 


202 


FIRES OF FATE 


faintly in his arms. The change that he saw in 
her fairly frightened him. From a warm living 
creature she had turned limp and cold. She 
gazed up at him dazed. She took in her sur¬ 
roundings with eyes of alarm. 

The veil had lifted. 

She had regained control of all that had been 
held in subjection; and the release from the bond¬ 
age of another’s mind had come with the sud¬ 
denness of the lightning’s flash. 

Out of the nothingness of the past had risen 
all the spectres of her humiliation and suffering. 
And her awakened mind began to function and 
to pick up the sequence of thought from the 
moment when thought had been broken off under 
the hypnotic control of the mysterious woman 
who had visited her in prison. 

From afar she seemed to hear a vioce say: 
“Once give yourself, your body, to a man, and 
all that you have suffered, all this punishment, 
will come back to you.” 

She stretched out her hand to feel the prison 
walls about her, to discover that she was sur¬ 
rounded only by the black shadows of stunted 
trees and underbrush. She looked up startled 


THE LIFTING VEIL 203 

into the eyes that were questioning her; she ran 
her hand over the bronzed, bearded face. 

“Who are you?” she muttered. Then: 
“Please take me home. Gwennie needs me.” 

She lapsed into a half-fainting condition. 
Tom, alarmed and anxious, gathered her up in 
his arms, and carried her to the door of the lodge. 
Mrs. Jimerson shook her head sadly at the sight 
of her. 

“Too much excitement, I reckon,” Tom ven¬ 
tured. Then he lingered outside the lodge until 
Mrs. Jimerson stuck her head through the door, 
and said: “Daughter of the Moon sick in head 
again, but she get better to-morrow, maybe. Go 
long home!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 

A NNE HAMBLETON was herself again; 
the personality of Daughter of the Moon 
had passed away into nothingness. She 
had reverted to her normal condition without 
memory of the hypnotic state, in which she had 
forgotten all that it was suggested that she should 
forget. The hypnosis had been closed. 

Everything was clear to Anne now, her real 
identity and all her former associations in life, 
but she had no facts to explain, or solve, the con¬ 
ditions of her return to her normal self. She 
felt perfectly well in every regard, and her entire 
experience while in camp was strangely dissoci¬ 
ated from her conscious perception, but not de¬ 
stroyed. 

She had awakened in a new world, and in the 
embrace of a strange man. At first she had 
thought him to be strange, but gradually the 
memory of him, and what he meant to her, came 

204 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 205 


back to her like the recollection of a sweet song 
that impresses itself upon one for life. His in¬ 
fluence had been too deep to be touched by any 
mental dissociation. Tom Goodheart was as real 
to her as the glowing embers at her feet. 

She was sitting before a bright fire of pine- 
knots. The picture of her life during the win¬ 
ter in the camp kept rising like isolated memo¬ 
ries. Finally she began piecing them together, 
one by one. Then the despair of her former 
life engulfed her like a flood, and she rose and 
sought Mrs. Jimerson, who was standing over 
the Johnny cakes in the kitchen, to see that both 
sides were done a golden brown. 

Mrs. Jimerson regarded her curiously. “Why 
you no tell me that you have husband and child?” 

“I seem to have come suddenly to my real 
senses,” was Anne’s reply; “and now I have only 
a vague recollection of what I’ve been doing here. 
I remember you drove me to the station from 
the—” she stopped short. “I know that you’ve 
befriended me.” 

“You are bewitched!” Mrs. Jimerson ex¬ 
claimed. 

“No, not that,” Anne replied with a wan smile. 
“I’m just a helpless, wretched woman that has 


206 


FIRES OF FATE 


been cruelly imposed upon. I could not help 
pretending to be what I was not. I only hope 
I have not disgraced myself,” she concluded, 
glancing towards the door where Tom had left 
her only a half hour ago. 

“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Jimerson, 
flipping a Johnny cake. “I disgraced myself 
once on the boat from Maryville; I got drunk.” 

“You’ve been so good to me, Mrs. Jimmy,” 
she said with a half-choking sob, “and I must 
still look to you for shelter and protection. 
Please say that you are still my friend.” 

Mrs. Jimerson hurried to her side, and taking 
her hand, began to pat it. “Indian never breaks 
pledge,” she consoled. “Better have nice hot 
cup of coffee. Make headache better, maybe.” 

The stimulation of coffee seemed to make Anne 
feel more keenly her strange position. She 
walked up and down trying to untangle the 
present from the memories of the past. It was 
clear to her now that she had been living in the 
state of semi-savagery, and that she had lived 
and loved. But this man, this Wolf, she must 
dismiss him from her thoughts. 

It was when she discovered the little silver 
cross and chain that the remembrance of the 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 207 


woman who had visited her in prison came back 
to her so vividly. It seemed beyond all reason 
that this woman could spirit her out of prison 
and send her, with this Indian companion, to 
these uncivilized parts. Yet she had the occult 
sense that this had been successfully accom¬ 
plished, and that the woman was serving out he? 
sentence. 

But what motive had prompted this strange 
woman to take her place, to set her free? Was 
she the real murderer of Rodney Webb? Here 
her whole current of thought changed. The stain 
and shame, all the grief and pain she had suf¬ 
fered, the renunciation of her rights as a mother 
—the mystery of it all, descended upon her like 
a black cloud. 

The sentence of life imprisonment had been 
passed upon her. She was a fugitive from the 
law. She felt strongly now her moral accounta¬ 
bility to the laws of the State that had executed 
judgment upon her. 

What could she do? The alternative kept ris¬ 
ing before her: to return at once and give herself 
up. To do this, or remain hidden in the wilder¬ 
ness. Finally she resolved to surrender herself 
to the authorities. 


208 


FIRES OF FATE 


At that moment there came the distant baying 
of a dog in the loggers’ camp. She gave a little 
clutching grasp at her throat. Perhaps the 
bloodhounds of the law were already upon her 
trail. A great fear possessed her, and she ran 
and hid herself under the blankets of her cot. 

During the night, Mrs. Jimerson tiptoed into 
the little curtained enclosure and leaned over the 
cot. Anne’js eyes were wide open. 

“Well, it’s got to come, Mrs. Jimmy,” she 
murmured, “for better, for worse.” 

The Indian woman beat a hasty retreat to her 
bunk, drew the covers over her head, and lay 
there, shivering in fear. 

A week went by, a week of mental anguish for 
Anne. She kept close to the lodge, and word 
had gone through the camp that she was ill. The 
Crazy Kid, and Lenoir, the cook, left bunches 
of spring flowers at the door. One day the log¬ 
gers sent her a huge bough of dogwood blossoms. 
But Tom never showed his presence. 

Could she ever be brave enough to tell Tom 
the truth,—to shatter his dreams? Much better 
that she go away without a word of explanation. 
She was not for him—not for any man. . . . 

Two things happened at the end of the week 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 209 


to distract Tom’s thoughts: the sudden appear¬ 
ance of a strange man in camp, and the arrival 
of the boat, bringing provisions and the first news, 
in almost six months, of the outside world. 

Tom was called from his cabin early in the 
evening—the day preceding the arrival of the 
boat, to interview the man who had stumbled into 
camp, after a day and night of privation and ex¬ 
posure in the mountains. Tom found him in 
the bunkhouse, partaking ravenously of some 
soup which Lenoir had prepared. 

Tom saw at once that the stranger, a gray¬ 
haired man of ruddy complexion, was a man of 
education and refinement; he had the city stamp 
in his manner and dress. Later in the evening, 
after his strength had returned, the stranger ex¬ 
plained that two days previously he had joined 
a hunting and fishing party at Maryville, and 
after a day and a night in the wilds, he had wan¬ 
dered from the camp, lost his way, and been 
twenty-four hours without food. He seemed 
greatly relieved when he found that he could re¬ 
turn the next evening to Maryville by boat. By 
morning, he appeared to have recovered entirely 
from his harrowing experience. 

It seems that the American Indian was one 


210 


FIRES OF FATE 


of the old gentleman’s hobbies. As it was too 
far to walk to the Indian camp, he begged to 
be allowed to call upon Mrs. Jimerson, to inspect 
her handiwork in the various Indian crafts. Tom 
readily complied, but sent Lenoir in advance to 
inform his Woman of their coming. 

A stranger in camp. The news came with 
startling suddenness to Anne. She had been 
tracked into the wilderness. This thought shot 
across her mind. 

Climbing up the rickety ladder to the loft, she 
secreted herself among the corn stalks and straw; 
and she found a convenient crack between two 
rough boards, through which she could view all 
that transpired below. 

With fear and trembling she saw Tom enter 
first. She saw him glance around for her and 
sigh disappointedly. Then came the thunder¬ 
clap. The recognition of the stranger was like 
seeing someone long dead and buried, risen from 
their grave. 

“Dr. Jex!” Her sight seemed to grow dim; 
her heart to stop still. But her senses rallied 
quickly, and she listened intently to all that he 
had to say. As he admired the beadwork, much 
of it her own handiwork, and proudly displayed 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 211 

by Mrs. Jimerson, the impulse seized her to re¬ 
veal herself. 

The sight of him made her hungry for news. 
What had happened all these months during her 
absence? Had nothing been uncovered that 
would establish her innocence? Surely, truth 
would reveal itself in time. 

The answer to her ceaseless questioning came 
sooner than she had anticipated. 

After admiring the exquisite beadwork, Dr. 
Jex made a cursory survey of the cabin. When 
he turned to speak to Mrs. Jimerson, he found 
her in tears. The Indian woman had been in 
a tragic mood for several days, and she did not 
intend to miss the chance of parading her woes 
before the stranger. So she began to wail about 
her deceased husband, who had been killed by 
treachery. 

The doctor seemed to take Mrs. Jimerson’s 
grief very much to heart. “Poor woman!” he 
said, after she had left the room; adding: “Some¬ 
times I find it hard to forgive life for its cruelty.” 
He paused. “Of course this may not interest 
you,” he resumed, turning to Tom, “but I had a 
very sad piece of news just before I left New 


2l2 


FIRES OF FATE 


York. A very dear friend of mine, a woman, 
died suddenly in prison.” 

The panic came again in Anne’s heart, al¬ 
though she had only half got the truth. 

“In prison?” Tom inquired. 

“Sounds strange, doesn’t it?” was the response. 
“But a stranger, sadder fate for a good woman, 
I’ve never known.” 

“A good woman—in prison?” Tom repeated. 
“I reckon that does sound strange.” 

“Would you like to hear the story?” 

“You bet I would,” was Tom’s reply. “News 
is scarce in these parts.” Then he added: “What 
sent the woman to prison?” 

“She was sentenced for murder.” 

Anne held her breath for fear she might betray 
her presence as the doctor proceeded: 

“Last summer, I went abroad on an extended 
vacation, and naturally, I did not keep myself 
informed on what was going on at home. I 
wanted a complete change, and rest. To my hor¬ 
ror, on my return six weeks ago, I learned that 
this charming woman had been tried and con¬ 
victed for the murder of a famous editor, whom 
she knew but slightly. The affair was very mys- 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 213 


terious, and she was convicted wholly on circum¬ 
stantial evidence.” 

“And you believe her innocent?” Tom asked. 

“Absolutely,” was the reply. 

“Couldn’t you do nothing?” 

Dr. Jex shook his head. “Her husband didn’t 
seem to care, and even my letters to the prisoner 
remained unanswered,” he went on. “When I 
visited the prison, she refused to see me. I 
learned that she had been acting strangely, poor 
woman. She worked as a seamstress, and rarely 
spoke to anyone. Her death came very suddenly 
—cerebral hemorrhage.” 

Anne’s mind was reeling. She kept asking 
herself: “Is this only a feverish dream?” And 
so much yet to be revealed. Would she live to 
hear it? 

“And when did she die?” 

“Just a week ago to-day—late in the after¬ 
noon.” 

Anne remembered the day and the hour shud- 
deringly; it was the hour the veil had lifted from 
her mind. It was true then; she had been under 
the hypnotic control of this strange woman. 

“Reckon that husband of hers gave her a de¬ 
cent burial,” Tom ventured. The story inter- 


214 


FIRES OF FATE 


ested him tensely, because he rarely heard what 
was going on in the great, outside world. 

“No,” said the doctor, to Tom’s surprise. 
“The night she died, a fire broke out in the prison, 
and her body was consumed by the flames.” 

There was blank terror on Tom’s face. “My 
God, that’s terrible, ain’t it?” He hesitated be¬ 
fore continuing, watching the nervous tension of 
the visitor’s face. “I reckon that brought the 
husband to his senses.” 

“But he wasn’t her husband at the time of her 
death,” Dr. Jex declared. “Four months after 
his wife was sent to prison, and she was sen¬ 
tenced to from twenty years to life, he obtained 
a divorce, and a few days later married a Miss 
Sanderson.” 

What followed this disclosure Anne scarcely 
knew, except that she clutched convulsively at 
the air, as if to save herself from falling. She 
had the sensation of being dropped through 
space. 

“It’s still a case with many complications,” Dr. 
Jex resumed. “I hope in time to see her name 
cleared, at least, for the sake of her son.” 

“Poor kid!” said Tom. 

“He’s being looked after by the Senator’s aunt, 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 215 


I understand/' the doctor said. “Of course he’s 
very young, too young to understand.” 

Just then Mrs. Jimerson entered the room, 
looking more cheerful. And it occurred to the 
doctor that he might be able to help her dispose 
of some of her handiwork. 

“See here, how would you like to go to New 
York?” he asked her. 

Mrs. Jimerson shrugged her shoulders. “Got 
no money,” she replied. 

The doctor turned to Tom. “Maybe you can 
help me out. Just as I was leaving town, I 
heard from a good friend of mine, an old lady 
rolling in wealth, who gives a bazaar in her town 
house every spring for her church mission. She 
knew I was coming north, and asked me to ar¬ 
range to bring down some Reservation Indians, 
to make beadwork for her bazaar. I’ve already 
engaged several at Maryville.” 

“I stay home,” Mrs. Jimerson chimed in. 

“You got over an hour before the boat goes,” 
urged Tom. 

With an eagle eye for business, Mrs. Jimerson 
compromised. She would be willing to send a 
liberal consignment of the beadwork in care of 
the visitor, provided he paid something in ad- 


216 


FIRES OF FATE 


vance. Dr. Jex willingly and generously com¬ 
plied with her wishes, and really paid more in 
bills and silver than the beadwork was worth. 
Tom had already refused to accept anything for 
his hospitality. 

After their departure, Anne climbed down 
from the loft. Mrs. Jimerson gave one look at 
her and gasped: “You look like dead woman.” 

Anne smiled wanly. She was a dead woman. 
Then a strange light came into her eyes; she 
clenched her hands tight. Out of the ashes of 
the fire that had destroyed all evidence of the 
great hoax, she would rise Phoenixlike, to crush 
those who had crushed her. The same desire for 
revenge that had burned so long in the heart of 
her Indian companion was now burning in her 
own heart. Her better nature seemed to fight 
against the idea, but it struggled in vain. The 
truth of the Indian woman’s saying came back 
to her: “Do not stir up revenge for it will never 
sleep again.” 

As Mrs. Jimerson set about to pack the beads, 
Anne had it out with herself in the confines of 
her little curtained bedroom. She had been 
duped. The remembrance of the sacrifice she 
had made for Grenville, and all that she had suf- 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 217 


fered in silence, came to her so vividly that it 
produced physical pain, as if she had been struck. 

Nor was she now concerned about the solution 
of the mystery that surrounded Rodney Webb’s 
death; that was a blank wall. The whole tenor 
of her being now resolved itself into that she had 
been cheated; and the single controlling impulse 
was to get even, to exact retribution upon those 
who had made her suffer. 

The spark of savagery in her would not be 
downed, nor would it admit of any compromise. 
She was the victim of Fate. Get it over with! 
—that was the mad, driving thought. She was 
free now to go where she chose. Free! She 
mouthed the word with a little hysterical laugh. 
The next moment she shrank under a new terror. 
There would always be the danger of recognition. 
She trembled, her heart heavy with this awful 
dread. Then, out of the turmoil of bewilder¬ 
ment, a new thought occurred to her. Why not 
put herself to the test—now? If Dr. Jex did not 
recognize her in the garb of an Indian woman, 
anything would be possible. 

Suppose that she took the boat to Maryville, 
and there joined the group of Indians Dr. Jex 
had engaged to go to New York for the bazaar? 


218 


FIRES OF FATE 


Money was a necessary means to an end, and 
she had sufficient to carry her through, for Mrs. 
Jimerson had already handed over her share from 
the sale of beadwork. 

The opportunity was ripe at her door to carry 
her plan into immediate action. Lenoir had been 
sent to the lodge by the doctor to fetch the bead- 
work, and Mrs. Jimerson had elected to accom¬ 
pany him to the boat. The camp was deserted 
to a man, which made the way clear for another 
adventurous idea. Hurriedly collecting her lit¬ 
tle belongings, and tying them up in one of Mrs. 
Jimerson’s blue bandana handkerchiefs, Anne 
slipped out into the purplish twilight, her head 
enveloped in a blanket which trailed almost to 
her ankles. 

She paused a moment to listen; all that she 
heard was the call of the blackbirds in the pine 
trees. It was as if Tom had spoken to her. 
Making a quick detour, she approached his 
cabin from the far side. The door was unbolted. 
She crept inside and fumbled about until she 
found a bit of paper and a pencil. On this she 
wrote: “I have a road to follow, and I must go 
alone. Good-by, Tom,—until we meet again.” 
She pinned it on the wall over the fireplace. 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST 219 


As she passed out cautiously, the Crazy Kid’s 
dog began to bark; but this no longer held her 
in the panic of fear. The ends of injustice had 
been defeated; no longer was she a woman 
hunted. 

She found her way to the boat landing, ob¬ 
scured in the friendly mantle of dusk; lanterns 
were gleaming fitfully like fireflies on the dock. 
Stealthily she approached. 

Turning, she espied several Indian women ap¬ 
proaching. She recognized them as belonging to 
the camp, and one of them seemed to be ill. She 
joined them at the gangway, her face partly con¬ 
cealed by her blanket. She stepped aboard, only 
to come face to face with Dr. Jex. She met his 
eyes squarely, under the yellowish glow of an 
oil lamp, but she saw no gleam of recognition. 
It was a terrorizing moment, but it left her with 
the happy realization that all chance of recogni¬ 
tion from any of her former associates was most 
remote. 

She hid herself away in the dimly-lighted 
woman’s cabin. The timbers creaked about her 
as the boat puffed its way downstream, like an 
asthmatic old lady climbing the stairs. She re¬ 
mained huddled in one corner; no one questioned 


220 


FIRES OF FATE 


her. Presently she passed into the stupor of 
sheer fatigue; but her mind was not asleep. She 
kept repeating to herself: “I am not dead.” 

But sleep came to her finally; and she awoke 
to the radiance of a new day—awoke to wonder, 
for a blank moment, why she should be sitting 
among these Indian women. Then it all came 
back to her. 


CHAPTER XVII 


DEAD OR ALIVE? 

T HE ancestral home of the Rawson Ren- 
wicks was a huge rambling structure of 
the French Renaissance period. A high, 
wrought-iron fence added to its dignified ex¬ 
clusiveness. Society had ebbed and flowed for 
many years, and the old mansion seemed to stand 
as a sort of bulwark against the changing tides. 

Mrs. Renwick, its sole occupant, save for a 
large retinue of servants, was utterly exclusive, 
but very humane. She had given up much of 
her time and wealth to charitable projects since 
the war, for she had shared the common sorrow 
of the world. Mars, the grim god, had knocked 
at her door. The great portals had long ago 
been closed to gayeties. Pleasure sat discon¬ 
solate on the doorstep. 

Once a year, however, she threw open her 
doors to the public, giving a bazaar in aid of the 
very poor of the parish of St. Jude’s. There was 

221 


222 


FIRES OF FATE 


always a note of expectancy about these affairs, 
for Mrs. Renwick usually introduced something 
in the way of a surprise. Last season it had been 
a troupe of Hawaiian singers and dancers. 

Lady Dawkins was wondering what the hos¬ 
tess had up her sleeve as she entered the house 
on the afternoon of the bazaar. In the entrance 
hall she ran across Mr. Puggins, who was just 
rushing away. He proudly displayed his pur¬ 
chase, a beaded tobacco pouch. 

“Indians!” gasped her ladyship. “So that’s 
the surprise? How intensely American.” 

They stood apart a while from the fashionable 
throng, and carried on a conversation, mixed 
with a little scandal. 

“Yes, I propose to cut Iris dead,” Lady Daw¬ 
kins was saying. “Why, only yesterday at the 
Plaza-” 

“Are they back in town?” Puggins put in. 

“Yes; and jolly well glad to get back. I hear 
they were practically ostracized at Palm Beach, 
and cut cold at White Sulphur Springs.” 

“His divorce and second marriage, coming so 
soon after his wife’s imprisonment, was a tragic 
mistake. Public opinion is very much against 
him.” Puggins spoke in a serious tone. 



DEAD OR ALIVE? 


223 


Lady Dawkins sighed in agreement, then 
picked up the lost thread of conversation. “Only 
yesterday I heard some new gossip about Gren¬ 
ville. He’s tired of Iris already, it seems. Little 
wonder, for she’s a human iceberg.” 

“Another woman?” Puggins asked, screwing 
up his nose. 

The dowager lady gave a glance over her 
shoulder before committing herself: “They say 
he’s gone quite mad over this dancer, Paula 
Straluski, who’s appearing at the Follies.” 

“By the way, what’s become of their child, 
Gwennie?” 

Another hurried glance over her shoulder, and 
Lady Dawkins replied: “The last information 
I had was that Honoria had placed him in a 
privately managed nursery, a sort of baby farm, 
somewhere in Jersey.” 

“I’ve always thought the whole Karley family 
was sort of cracked!” Puggins snapped. “The 
family is so old it’s beginning to spoil. Gren¬ 
ville is crack-brained. I shouldn’t wonder if he 
didn’t kill Rodney Webb. He hated him, you 
know, like poison.” 

“Why don’t you go to the police and tell them 
all this?” Lady Dawkins suggested. 


224 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Useless, at this late day,” moaned Puggins. 

“Perhaps when Gwennie grows up, he’ll clear 
his mother’s name,” remarked the dowager lady. 
“Of course we’ll both be dead and buried then.” 

“There’s one man in town who seems to be still 
interested in the case,” said Puggins, “and that’s 
Dr. Jex. He thought the world of Mrs. Karley. 
He says find the motive—and there was really 
none established at the trial, and you’ll find the 
real criminal.” 

“I’ve always thought there was something 
psychic about the whole affair,” Lady Dawkins 
said. “Rodney, you know, was a firm believer in 
psychic phenomena. I heard him discuss it. 
And Mrs. Karley told of some remarkable hap¬ 
penings along that line. I remember now, she 
spoke of a strange woman she saw in the crowd 
at her wedding, who seemed to have some in¬ 
fluence upon her.” 

Puggins scratched his bald spot. Yes; he re¬ 
called the incident. “I had quite forgotten 
that,” he said, “and I shall have to tell Dr. Jex. 
You see, he has established the fact that there 
was a third party to the mysterious crime, and 
this was not brought out at the trial. The doctor 
has proof that a strange woman called on Mrs. 


DEAD OR ALIVE? 


22 5 


Karley at the prison just before she was removed 
to Woburn. The records at the prison show that 
she was admitted on Pumpelly’s personal card, 
but the lawyer has never recovered from that 
stroke sustained the day after the trial closed, 
and is too ill to be interviewed. This strange 
woman remained with the prisoner about a quar¬ 
ter of an hour. Now, who was she?” 

“She may have been the same woman Mrs. 
Karley saw at the church.” 

Puggins tapped his chin with his forefinger 
meditatively. “By gad, that’s a pretty good 
point.” 

“Call Dr. Jex on the telephone at once,” Lady 
Dawkins suggested forthwith. 

When the dowager lady finally entered the 
ballroom, the crush in front of the Indian booth 
was so dense that she found difficulty in elbowing 
her way through to the front. She saw three stol¬ 
id, greasy-faced squaws engaged in lace-making, 
while a weazen-faced,wrinkled old man—some¬ 
body said he was the Chief, sat in front of a 
make-believe camp fire, carving wooden novel¬ 
ties. Then she noticed a young Indian woman 
in the rear of the booth, bending over a small 
bead loom. In the background was a painted 


226 


FIRES OF FATE 


forest. Her curiosity satisfied, she started to 
look for Mrs. Renwick. 

Anne felt the strange eyes upon her, and she 
was thankful for the quiet obscurity of her cor¬ 
ner; but she was keenly alive to everything that 
was said and done. Her sense of watchfulness, 
bred of the forest, was aiding her in the decep¬ 
tion she was practising. She had cultivated the 
immovable countenance of the Indian, which 
seemed to mask all uneasiness. 

Her first definite note of alarm came at her 
recognition of Lady Dawkins. At any moment 
now Grenville and Iris, or Honoria, might show 
their faces in the crowd that was pressing in 
front of the booth. Would they recognize her as 
one risen from the dead? Or would they idly 
pass her by, as did Lady Dawkins? 

Anne hardly realized the change that had 
taken place in her appearance. She had gone 
into the wilderness pallid and pinched, with 
features contorted by suffering and eyes dilated 
by terror. She had emerged transformed, as if 
the magic hand of sun and wind, with one mas¬ 
ter stroke, had painted away her former facial 
characteristics. Her cheeks were full, her eye¬ 
brows and lashes heavier and longer, her hair 


DEAD OR ALIVE? 


227 


more dark and luxuriant. Her lips were red¬ 
der, and the sharp angles of her neck had been 
softly rounded out. There was a peachblow 
under her tanned, dusky skin. Her experiences 
in the wilderness had imparted to her that alert 
poise of the head; she walked with a buoyant 
spring; she had the agility of a panther, and yet 
she could creep along like any crawling thing. 

So far, chance seemed to have favored her at 
every turn. She had met no obstacle in allying 
herself with Old Wrinkle Face, as the Chief was 
called, and his lace-makers. She had passed her¬ 
self off successfully as a half-breed. Her handi¬ 
work had delighted the old man, who was no 
stranger to New York, he having already ar¬ 
ranged to take a booth at the forthcoming sports¬ 
men’s show. They were all quartered in a cheap 
rooming-house in West Fortieth Street. 

A touch upon the shoulder, and she looked up 
like a startled animal. e Tm sorry,” she heard a 
soft, sympathetic voice say. The speaker was 
Mrs. Renwick. “But you must be tired, sitting 
so long, and one of the ladies suggested that you 
might like to take a turn at the counter. You’re 
very attractive, you know, and it might help the 
sales.” 


228 


FIRES OF FATE 


Anne murmured something amiable, not ar¬ 
ticulate, and took her place at the counter. She 
had made up her mind now to look facts fiercely 
in the face, and to bow to the inevitable. 

As she stood facing the throng, she felt like a 
wax figure in a glass case; drop a penny in the 
slot, and have a look. And yet there was a gleam 
of hatred in her eyes. She faced the world of 
men and women that had condemned her; they 
had looked down from the arena of life while she 
had been literally torn by the beasts. She was 
glad when she was relieved at the counter; and 
she had no sooner resumed her work at the bead- 
loom, when a familiar, grating voice caused her 
to look up. 

Honoria and Iris stood at the booth. The 
aunt’s voice brought up the chaotic past; every 
memory seemed afire. Anne bent over her work, 
showing a clean cut profile against the painted 
forest. Her heart was going like the beating of 
a drum. She felt their eyes upon her. 

Honoria had purchased a bit of lace, and was 
waiting for her change, when her eyes fell upon 
the figure in the corner of the booth. They be¬ 
came fixed for a moment, Iris following the di¬ 
rection of the aunt’s eyes. To Anne, it seemed as 


DEAD OR ALIVE? 229 

if the room had gone suddenly still; the silence 
was tense. The recognition had come; the awful 
anticipation made her dread to raise her eyes. 
When she dared, she found that she had been a 
victim of her own fears. Honoria and Iris had 
moved from in front of the booth, and were 
standing with their backs towards her—talking 
with Grenville. 

Anne shuddered as she glimpsed him in a flash. 
She noted how gray he had become, how emacia¬ 
ted and nervous. She did not realize until that 
moment what an object of terror and aversion 
he had become to her. 

Just then Lady Dawkins came sweeping up, 
and passed Grenville and Iris without even a 
nod of recognition, although they both made a 
move to speak to her. Then she paused, and 
very haughtily listened to what Honoria had to 
say. Anne watched them furtively through the 
branches, like an animal ready to spring. 

“My dear, won’t you have tea with us?” Hon¬ 
oria was pleading. 

Lady Dawkins shook her head in the nega¬ 
tive, and so firmly that the feather in her hat 
quivered. “Don’t you realize that what you are 


230 


FIRES OF FATE 


asking me is impossible?” She gave a glance of 
disdain in the direction of Grenville and Iris. 

Honoria looked pained at the cut. “But 
there’s something I want to—to ask you,” she 
went on. “I know it’s foolish for me to think 


“Think what?” 

“To think that Anne Karley isn’t really dead,” 
Honoria returned with alarm in her voice. 

Her ladyship regarded her curiously a moment 
before replying. “Of course, she’s dead,” she 
said succinctly; “dead and buried.” Then she 
left Honoria’s side without another word. 

Once outside, the aunt seized the first oppor¬ 
tunity to say to Iris: “I saw it, and it fright¬ 
ened me.” 

Iris returned coldly: “Oh, you mean the 
likeness? the resemblance of that young Indian 
woman to—to Anne? You’re foolish to let it 
upset you so. Anyway, don’t speak of it to 
Grenville. It was only a coincidence, and im¬ 
possible—impossible!” 



CHAPTER XVIII 


A GLEAM IN THE DARKNESS 

A NNE felt greatly relieved after they had 
gone. That much was over with, and she 
had come out of an alarming situation 
unscathed. The rush of painful memories had 
now given way to curiosity. What had prompted 
Lady Dawkins to treat Grenville and Iris with 
such contemptuous disdain? Some disturbing 
influence was at work. This sudden turn seemed 
to throw her into the whirl of a strange, unex¬ 
pected excitement that made her mind reel. She 
resumed her work with some difficulty. 

A hedge of boxwood trees separated the In¬ 
dian exhibit from the coffee booth. Mrs. Ren- 
wick had just stepped up to sample the coffee 
when Lady Dawkins joined her. They sat down 
at a small table in the rear of the booth, and a 
great deal that they said was overheard by Anne. 

“I find that things in life always work out 
in a circle,” the dowager lady was speaking now. 
“For example, Grenville Karley is standing to- 

231 


232 


FIRES OF FATE 


day just where he stood before Rodney Webb’s 
murder. He has worked around in a circle. He 
was unfaithful to Anne Karley, and now—well, 
Iris can never say that she walked into this mar¬ 
riage with eyes blindfolded.” 

“You don’t mean-?” began Mrs. Renwick, 

apparently very much shocked. 

“Yes;” Lady Dawkins interposed; “and the 
woman in question is here this afternoon, right 
in your own house. She’s the beautiful dancer, 
Paula Straluski, who is in charge of the Russian 
tea room. Why, Grenville hung around her all 
afternoon. Everybody’s talking about it.” 

“How very painful,” declared Mrs. Renwick, 
as she finished her coffee. 

“Honoria brought Iris and Grenville here for 
the moral effect, but it didn’t work,” Lady Daw¬ 
kins resumed. “It just shows what stuff her 
nephew is made of when he allows her to keep 
the child in a miserable baby farm somewhere in 
Jersey.” 

“Oh, but I can’t believe that of Honoria,” said 
Mrs. Renwick. “She must be made to see the 
cruelty of such a course, if it is true. I’ll speak 
to her about it-” 


“Hopeless, my dear,” said the dowager lady. 




GLEAM IN THE DARKNESS 233 

“Honoria is distraught. The worst ever has hap¬ 
pened. Mrs. Bobbinet, who is looking after the 
grab bags, just showed me a copy of the Eve - 
ning Gazette ." 

“What’s happened?” 

“Grenville defied the speed law on Pelham 
Parkway early this morning, had an altercation 
with a policeman—struck him, and dear knows 
what else.” 

“But that’s the most ordinary occurrence now¬ 
adays,” Mrs. Renwick began. 

“But there was a woman with him, my dear,” 
Lady Dawkins intervened; “Paula Straluski. 
Five o’clock, and returning from—where? The 
Gazette has the scandalous affair splashed all 
over the front page.” 

That was the end of the conversation so far 
as Anne was concerned, for she had been again 
requested to take a turn at the counter. 

She had undergone some indefinable change 
in a brief space of time. Her designs for re¬ 
taliation up to now had been vague, but now 
they were definite, almost vitriolic. The start¬ 
ling information imparted by Lady Dawkins 
had become as a weapon in her hands. 

A Punch and Judy show in the adjoining 


234 


FIRES OF FATE 


room had thinned out the crowd. The other 
saleswomen had gone for a cup of tea, and she 
had been left in complete charge of the booth. 
She saw Lady Dawkins leave the coffee booth 
with Mrs. Renwick, and her departure relieved 
her from any further anxiety over detection. 

Finally she said to herself: “Pll do it!” as 
though she had reached a decision. Turning she 
found herself face to face with the one woman 
she most desired to meet—Paula Straluski. 

The beautiful Russian fingered the lace with 
her exquisite fingers, upon which gleamed the 
fire of the green jade. She spoke in broken Eng¬ 
lish, with a decided French accent, which re¬ 
minded Anne of Lenoir. At first Anne spoke 
only in monosyllables, then very tactfully broke 
the ice of reserve by making a remark in English. 

“I am so glad you speak ze English,” the 
dancer said languidly. “I dare say you make 
all zese pretty zings in your wigwam.” 

Anne smiled. “The Indian nowadays, at least 
the eastern Indian, lives and works like every¬ 
body else.” 

The dancer sighed. “How sad,” she lisped, 
“for it destroys ze picture I had in my mind 
of ze American Indian. Please do not tell me 


GLEAM IN THE DARKNESS 235 

zat ze Indian woman loves, well, like everybody 
else.” 

“Love is the same, too,” Anne admitted. “But 
hate—revenge! That’s different perhaps. An 
Indian never forgets a hurt.” Her eyes blazed. 

The little barbaric flash impressed the dancer. 
“You are very severe,” she said. “Has anybody 
wronged you?” 

Anne replied indirectly. “I have suffered,” 
she admitted. 

“Are you quite alone in ze world, or are zese 
women your relatives?” 

“I am alone, but not from choice. Everything 
that I loved has been taken from me.” Her voice 
trailed into a pathetic whisper. 

“You are not like ze others,” the dancer went 
on. “I just see one of zem spit on ze floor. 
You are educated, you have manners.” 

Anne smiled in spite of herself. “The younger 
generation has the advantages of school,” she 
rejoined. “The older people remain just as their 
forefathers were—savages at heart.” 

“Maybe I am what you call a savage at heart,” 
the dancer remarked airily. “Only zis morning 
I wanted to kill my maid wiz ze hat pin because 
she went to ze movies wiz ze policeman. I don’t 


236 


FIRES OF FATE 


mind firemen or icemen, but ze policeman—zay 
are so common.” 

“I’ve read that every woman has a little of the 
primitive savage still in her,” said Anne. 

“Zat is ze truth,” was the response. “And how 
I envy ze simplicity of your life. Sometimes I 
grow very tired of ze managers, ze public, ze 
grand love affairs. In Paris I get what you call 
sick of ze men. I say to myself, some day I 
go and live wiz ze Indians. Once, when I was a 
little girl in Vienna, I went wiz my uncle to see 
ze great Buffalo Bill. But I find no Indians 
in New York, although my friends in Paris zay 
say plenty of Indians in Chicago. And now I 
come here, and make friends wiz ze beautiful 
Indian princess. Are you really an Indian?” 

Anne pretended to feel hurt, and murmuring 
a few words in the Seneca language, walked to 
the other end of the counter. Mile. Straluski 
followed her. “Please!” she said. “I like you 
so much. I want you to come and see me, to 
have tea wiz me, ze Russian way, wiz ze samovar.” 

“I have no time for play,” Anne returned. 

“How long will you be in New York, Miss 
-?” she paused. “What shall I call you?” 


GLEAM IN THE DARKNESS 237 

“I am called Daughter of the Moon,” replied 
Anne. “I’m a half-breed, and I belong to the 
Seneca tribe.” She stood willing and ready now 
to perjure her soul to attain the desired end. 
“We expect to be in the city about ten days,” 
she added. 

“I like you so much, and I feel so sorry for 
you,” Mile. Straluski breathed fervently. “You 
can teach me many zings. I am all on ze sur* 
face, but you—you mask a thousand fears— 
love, hate, suffering, tears. Am I not right?” 

“It’s the truth, Mile. Straluski,” Anne replied 
simply. 

“How did you come to know my name?” the 
dancer inquired in surprise. 

“I overheard someone speak of you,” was 
the reply; “and I remembered that I had seen 
your picture on a billboard near my rooming 
place. You do not wear many clothes when you 
dance?” 

The dancer smiled. “I would be a pauper if 
I did not dress, or undress, to please ze poor 
tired business man. Oh, you must come to see 
me! I will show you my pretty clothes, my jew¬ 
els, and maybe, my love letters.” 

The mention of the love letters brought a 


238 


FIRES OF FATE 

dancing fire into Anne’s eyes. “I’m afraid old 
Wrinkle Face would object,” she parleyed. 

Then an idea occurred to the dancer. She 
picked up the purse she had been admiring. “I 
will pay somezing down on ze purse, zen you 
can bring me ze purse and collect ze balance. 
Ze old pucker-face could not object to zat, 
surely.” 

Thereupon Anne agreed to come. “But you 
must see me alone,” she urged. “I do not like 
to meet strangers.” 

The dancer gave a rippling laugh. “No fear,” 
she said. “I would not trust my gentleman 
friends wiz a charming creature like you.” She 
paid the deposit on the purse, and touching 
Anne’s hand lightly with a “La, la!” and “Au 
revoir,” walked away, leaving a heavy scent of 
“glorie de fleur” in her trail. 

Anne stood for a moment transfixed in 
thought. The dancer had unwittingly paved the 
way for immediate, definite action. Love let¬ 
ters. . . . Grenville’s love letters! With reso¬ 
lute lines of the mouth, she reiterated, half aloud: 
“I’ll do it.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 

I N the spring of the year come violent dis¬ 
turbances of the atmosphere, with thunder, 
strong wind, and sweeping rain. There is 
often the same startling sequence in the affairs 
of life. 

It did seem as if, coincident with the first 
appearance of Anne Karley’s ghost, a hidden 
spring had been touched, releasing a series of 
events that crowded one upon the other with 
amazing rapidity. Some subtle influence seemed 
at work on the mysterious death of Rodney 
Webb; certainly not the police. But the police 
were not to be blamed; they had done their duty, 
and the case had become a closed chapter at the 
Homicide Bureau, following the conviction and 
sentence. The business of the police is to make 
arrests; like busy millers they fling the suspected, 
and the evidence at hand, into the great hoppers 
of the law, and the grinding mill does the rest. 

239 


240 


FIRES OF FATE 


Public opinion, that great arena of judgment, 
had also been satisfied. Anne Karley had been 
given a fair and impartial trial. 

But the police and the public had not taken 
into consideration that there is a third silent 
party to everything—the law of compensation, 
a sort of counterbalancing that acts as a gyro¬ 
scope, and keeps life eternally in equilibrium. 
As Emerson once wrote: “Every secret is told, 
every crime is punished, every virtue rewarded, 
every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty.” 

And this is how it worked in Anne Karley’s 
case: 

First came the change in public sentiment over 
Grenville’s second marriage before the ink was 
hardly dry upon his final decree of divorce. That 
he should forsake his wife so soon after the 
prison doors had been closed upon her, shook 
the public’s confidence. The Evening Gazette 
called it an unholy marriage, overshadowed by 
the deserted wife, who pined behind prison bars 
with all the world against her. Newspapers are 
often the tool of this third silent party in the 
compensation of injustice meted out to the help¬ 
less and innocent. 

The blue-blooded Senator came out boldly in 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 241 


his own defence, and attributed all the misrep¬ 
resentations and lies that were being published 
about him as the malicious work of his political 
enemies. 

Adverse opinion was just giving way to a 
more tolerant viewpoint when there came an¬ 
other shock—Anne Karley’s death, and the hor¬ 
ror of her body being consumed in the prison 
fire. She was now spoken of as a martyr. There 
was even talk of reopening the case, but nothing 
came of it. Once again public opinion rested, but 
the eternal principles were still at work. 

Still another event, not so tragic, but tremen¬ 
dous in its effect. Rumors of a rift in the mar¬ 
ital lute of the Senator and his second wife had 
been percolating into the public’s mind through 
the published gossip of society. It proved to be 
a harmless little bomb of scandal. But harmless 
looking bombs often explode when least ex¬ 
pected. The Senator was caught in the police 
net at five o’clock in the morning for speeding, 
and as Pelham Parkway is rather isolated, there 
was no escape for his fellow traveler—Paula 
Straluski. 

In gloating over the affair, the Evening 
Gazette brought out the fact that the Sena- 


242 


FIRES OF FATE 


tor’s young son had been sadly neglected by the 
stepmother; that the child did not even share 
the comfort and luxury of the Park Avenue 
home, but was being looked after by strangers 
in a nursery, “the location of which is now being 
sought by our reporters;” to quote the exact 
words of the Gazette . 

So the public had just about made up its mind 
that Grenville was not fit to hold public office, 
that he was morally deficient and an all-around 
rotter, when another sensation was sprung. This 
was on the morning following the bazaar at Mrs. 
Renwick’s. 

An anonymous communication was published 
in one of the more conservative papers, and the 
public received it in blank wonderment. The 
message read: “Rodney Webb did not die by a 
woman’s hand.” Very brief, but very amazing. 
It was a decided jolt. Steps were at once taken 
to run down the sender. Evidently a man’s hand¬ 
writing—a pencil scrawl on cheap note-paper. 

Anne read it that morning at her rooming- 
house. She had no theories herself about how 
the murder was actually committed. It had come 
to her now and then that perhaps she had in¬ 
flicted the death blow without being conscious 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 243 


of the act; that she had been impelled in thought 
by another. Still, she remembered distinctly 
putting the fatal dagger back into place in the 
cabinet in the hall. 

She had awakened to a gray April morning, 
not conducive to optimism. Once, in the agony 
of despair, she decided to go straight to the 
police, to give herself over to the law, but the 
madness of her design to retaliate kept down her 
more sober senses. The new stroke of ill-fortune 
to the house of Karley seemed to press her on to 
action. 

What mystified her was the motive of the 
woman who had set her free and shouldered the 
punishment. Had this mysterious person paid 
the penalty for a crime which she had commit¬ 
ted? Yet the message—and she had the occult 
sense that it had come from an authentic source, 
claimed that Rodney Webb had not died by a 
woman’s hand. 

Baffled, and tormented by restless thoughts, 
she left the rooming-house late in the afternoon, 
to try and walk off her depression of spirits, 
although she had decided to keep indoors until 
the time for her appointment with Mile. Stra- 
luski, the following afternoon, at four. 


244 


FIRES OF FATE 


The three Indian women occupied one large 
room; hers was a dingy, back hall bedroom. 
There was no attempt on the part of the other 
lodgers, mostly circus people, awaiting the open¬ 
ing of the summer season, to be sociable. So 
she kept to herself as long as she could. Her 
tense emotionalism needed something to feed on, 
and it finally drove her out. 

She had equipped herself at Maryville with 
clothes for street wear out of her earnings, a 
cheap black suit and a black straw hat, a gray 
veil and gloves. So she melted into the mist 
that cloaked the city with a measure of confi¬ 
dence, wandering aimlessly about for a while in 
a section of the city that was strange to her. The 
dense traffic and moving throngs confused her. 
Still she had no fear of the crowd. Had not her 
fate been strangely altered by one who had come 
out of a crowd? 

Yet her soul was fear-bound; she had no real 
liberty of action, nor the right to do; the power 
of self-determination was not hers. Law is fatal; 
she could never escape it. 

She had been walking about half an hour when 
the haunted dread seized her that she was being 
followed. She made a pretence of looking into a 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 245 


shop window, and then gave a frightened glance 
backward. The crowd passed her by unseeing; 
again she felt that she was a victim of her own 
fears. There was something familiar about this 
drug-store window, and she realized with a start 
that she was only half a block away from the 
Rembrandt. What was to hinder her walking 
past the tragic spot? Her innate curiosity was 
aroused; she could not hold herself back. 

But torn between two other impulses she hesi¬ 
tated before turning the corner. One was to 
go into the drug-store, and try to find a nursery 
in the suburban telephone book; to take a chance 
on locating Gwennie. Then she decided that 
this might expose her to risk; she must abide 
her time. So she put into execution her second 
thought. Stepping up to the corner news¬ 
stand she asked for a copy of Truth , to find 
that it had stopped publication some months back. 
Simultaneously, came a chance disclosure, an¬ 
other forge in the chain of events. Prominently 
displayed upon the front page of an evening 
newspaper, was the announcement of an auction 
sale of Rodney Webb’s personal effects; and it 
was to take place the next day in the apartment 
where the murder had been committed. There 


246 


FIRES OF FATE 


had been a long delay over the settlement of Rod¬ 
ney’s estate; everything he owned was mort¬ 
gaged, and he died, neck deep in debt. 

Thus circumstance contrived to send Anne di¬ 
rect to the Rembrandt; she felt irresistibly drawn 
to the place, and she walked into the entrance 
hall without fear. The house was shortly to be 
torn down, and all the apartments had been va¬ 
cated. A placard at the front door announced 
the sale. A moving van stood at the curb. 

A little, weazen-faced Irishman emerged from 
Rodney’s apartment just as she stepped into the 
hall. He sensed at once that she had come to 
inquire about the sale. 

“Shure, an’ you’d better go inside, ma’am,” he 
said as she stood hesitatingly. “To-morrow, I’ll 
bet you won’t be able to git within a block of th’ 
house.” 

A large oil lamp, with a red silk shade, was 
burning on the table in the living room; it lighted 
the hall and adjoining rooms dimly. The famil¬ 
iar environment seemed to hold a strange fascina¬ 
tion for Anne. She noticed that everything was 
in its accustomed place; the air was close and 
musty. Before entering the living room she ran 
her hand along the wall of the hall until it came 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 247 


into contact with the cabinet; the weapons were 
still there, and the touch of cold steel gave her 
a sudden chilling of the blood. 

She was standing in the living room when the 
van man reentered. “Look around, ma’am, all 
you like,” he said cheerfully. “You’re the first 
visitor since I’ve bin ’ere ’scept a gintlemin, who 
was nosin’ round a bit. You needn’t be aferd.” 

“Afraid—of what?” Anne asked calmly. 

The Irishman gazed at her in muddled sur¬ 
prise. “There was a murder committed ’ere, 
ma’am. Funny you didn’t ’ear about it. Th’ 
gintlemin ’e seemed to know all about it.” 

So saying, he walked to the door which opened 
into the former quarters of Wickers, the valet, 
and called out: “Assop! Where you kapin’ your- 
silf?” Retracing his footsteps, he said to Anne: 
“I was jist callin’ the driver. He’s a Greek, an’ 
’is name is Assopoulos. ’E hates work worse thin 
poison.” Before leaving he roared out again: 
“Assop! Git a move on you.” 

After the Greek driver, who resembled a 
grisly bandit, had passed through the room, 
Anne stood in lonely ghastliness, yet she was 
amazed at her self-possession. Her labored 
breathing was the only sign of what was going 


248 


FIRES OF FATE 


on inside of her. How intensely she had suf¬ 
fered! How bitter the recollections! There was 
no remorse in her heart, for she had not sinned; 
she had committed no wrong. Her only offence 
now was the evasion of the law. Yet as a ghost 
—the living counterpart of Anne Karley, who 
was dead and buried, was she not wholly outside 
the law? She had not thought of her strange 
position in that light before. 

By this time she had walked into the dimly 
lighted library, with footfalls as soft as velvet. 
When she entered the gloomy drawing-room she 
lifted her veil; she felt secure. Only a narrow 
shaft of yellow light fell through the parted cur¬ 
tains. She stood still for a moment near the spot 
where Rodney had fallen in his death agony. 
Her nerves were tense, almost taut. The room 
was as still as death. 

Then she heard the sound of voices on the out¬ 
side, in front; it sounded as if the Irishman and 
the Greek were engaged in heated argument. 
She listened a moment, and then her quick ear 
caught the sound of voices nearer at hand—men’s 
voices, in the library. She was uncertain what 
to do; to reveal herself might prove disastrous. 
Darkness was about her, so she remained per- 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 249 


fectly quiet. The breathless moments that fol¬ 
lowed seemed hours. 

First came a challenging voice: “What are 
you doing here?” 

With a convulsive start, she recognized it as 
Grenville’s voice. What was he doing here? 
The discovery of his presence was a strange, ter¬ 
rifying one. What it meant she did not then 
realize. 

The second voice was unfamiliar; she tried to 
place it, but couldn’t. They were conversing 
very low now, and she was able to catch only 
fragments of what they were saying. Presently 
Grenville’s voice was slightly raised. 

“. . . be patient and listen to me,” said the un¬ 
familiar voice. 

“. . . you won’t.” This came from Grenville. 

“. . . everything—everything!” That was all 
she caught of the second man’s response. 

. . if you do, by God! . . .” 

“. . . no right . . .” 

. . keep silent.” That was Grenville speak¬ 
ing. 

. . tell the truth. . . .” 

. . worse for you.” Grenville’s voice was 


250 FIRES OF FATE 

threatening. Then came: 4 ‘You know the conse¬ 
quences.” 

The voices stopped short. 

Anne remembered the van-man had spoken 
about a “gintlemin” visitor; it had been Gren¬ 
ville, no doubt. But he had not mentioned a sec¬ 
ond person. Perhaps they had both walked in 
while the Irishman and the Greek were arguing 
between themselves. 

She listened. Not a sound. Then a door 
slammed somewhere. At the same moment, she 
became conscious of another presence in the draw¬ 
ing-room. Simultaneously she recognized the 
man’s breathing and the little nervous catch in 
his throat; it was Grenville. And he was grop¬ 
ing about the room. 

She had the advantage of sight, for her eyes 
had become accustomed to the gloom. She 
watched him plainly as he came up to the little 
gilt table from which she had taken the fatal 
manuscript. Her sacrifice had been in vain. 
How she hated him; how selfish, how cruel he was. 

Unknowingly, in the tensity of her thoughts, 
she had swayed a little to the front, which brought 
her face into the shaft of light. Her figure, 
garbed in black, did not show. It was only the 


HAUNTING MEMORIES 251 


face that Grenville saw; and with a quick, smoth¬ 
ered gasp, he crept out of the room. Just as 
he passed between the curtains he glanced back; 
the face had disappeared, Anne having stepped 
back into complete obscurity. 

Pale and terrified, Grenville stepped out into 
the hall. He had looked upon the face of a 
woman who was dead and buried. 


CHAPTER XX 


SINKING SANDS 


H ONORIA was keenly alive to the exi¬ 
gency of the hour; never had she been so 
thoroughly aroused. She had fooled her¬ 
self so long with the idea that the house of Karley 
was as secure and as impregnable as the rock 
of Gibraltar. 

“We’re all of us helpless, in sinking sands,” 
she declared the day following the bazaar. She 
had called at her nephew’s house to have it out 
with Iris. 

“I’ve never cared for Grenville in the way a 
wife should,” Iris admitted calmly. “It was a 
shock to me those first days of our married life 
to find that I didn’t. And you’re to blame.” 
“Fault of mine ?” Honoria gave a harsh laugh. 
“You’ve been preaching Grenville to me for 
years,” Iris went on, “and somehow I got to see 
him through your eyes. It was your viewpoint 
that blinded me to the mistake I made in marry- 

252 


SINKING SANDS 


253 


ing him after the infamous conduct of the first 
Mrs. Karley. Away from your influence and 
your belief in him, he stood stripped of every 
illusion. He’s a beast.” 

Honoria flamed up instantly. “Why Gren¬ 
ville married you, heaven only knows! You 
simply flung yourself at him. You came in be¬ 
tween him and Anne. From the moment he was 
married, you pursued him wantonly.” 

“You wicked woman!” Iris gasped. “How 
can you say such untruthful things?” She paced 
up and down in front of Honoria, who was 
seated, giving her a scornful look every time she 
passed her. Finally Honoria said: “Do sit 
down.” Iris did so. Her glances grew less 
severe. Presently she threw up her hands. “Oh, 
it’s maddening!” she exclaimed. “He never set 
foot in this house last night. He has never begged 
my forgiveness, as he should, upon his knees. 
He’s probably at this very moment with that 
immoral dancer.” 

Honoria sighed deeply. “You must be more 
tolerant, my dear,” she urged. “Tolerance is 
something every woman should pack in her bridal 
things. Affairs of this sort mean so little to 


men. 


254 


FIRES OF FATE 


“It’s only when they get caught that it means 
something,” Iris put in. 

The aunt continued to preach. “My nephew 
has had more than his share of trouble and 
worry. I’m fearful now that none of us can live 
down the ignominy of the past. It seems to rest 
upon Grenville like a curse. Ever since Anne 
Karley went to her doom-” 

“You mean her death?” Iris interrupted. 

“Somehow I can’t make myself believe that 
she’s really dead and buried.” Honoria’s lips 
twitched a little as she spoke. “Some evil influ¬ 
ence seems to be at work against Grenville, 
against us all. Of course I never did the woman 
any harm, and yet I have this dread in my heart 
of some day meeting her. I have a horror now 
of being alone in the dark.” 

“Then you believe in ghosts?” 

Honoria shivered. “Yes, I do believe in 
ghosts. The ghost of my aunt, a dear, fussy old 
person, kept visiting our old home until it was 
torn down. She would arrange all the books 
neatly on the table in the living room, place the 
chairs with their backs to the wall, and sweep up 
the ashes around the fireplace.” 

“Silly rubbish,” Iris commented frigidly. 



SINKING SANDS 255 

Then: “What’s to be done? What shall we do 
to save Grenville—ourselves?” 

“From Anne?” Honoria added swiftly. She 
was showing the strain of the last few days; the 
lines on her face had deepened, and the heavy 
blue marks under her eyes gave them a hollow 
look. 

“Can’t you get Anne Karley out of your 
mind?” Iris said, impatiently. 

“It was the striking resemblance of that Indian 
woman to Anne that has upset me so.” 

“But it was only a coincidence,” declared Iris. 
“Please pull yourself together, and give some 
thought to me—to my extremity.” 

“Quite right, my dear,” sighed the aunt. “I 
have thought of a plan. That’s why I’m here this 
afternoon, when I should be in bed. But first 
you must promise to excuse—I don’t say forgive, 
Grenville for his weakness. At least, until we 
get him well in hand.” 

“Anything you say,” was the hopeless re¬ 
joinder. 

Thereupon Honoria presented her plan. 
“First of all, we must try and combat the distrust 
of the public. Your marital relations must be¬ 
come secondary.” 


256 


FIRES OF FATE 


“That’s unreasonable at the very start.” 

Honoria motioned for silence. “Listen to me, 
please. I have the advantage of age, of experi¬ 
ence. I’m sure we can win back the confidence 

of the people in Grenville if-” She stopped 

to illustrate her point by showing a newspaper 
clipping regarding the father’s seeming neglect 
of his young son. 

“But what has this to do with me?” said Iris, 
after glancing at the clipping. 

Again Honoria quieted her with a gesture. 
“This child, Gwennie, is invaluable to you both. 
He is the nearest point from which help in an 
emergency can come. You don’t seem to realize 
the dangers that confront Grenville. He may 
be impeached-” 

Iris demurred strongly. “Why should I be 
called upon to assume any responsibility? The 
child is being well taken care of. You’ve seen to 
that yourself.” 

The aunt avoided the questioning gaze. “The 
nursery is a very respectable place, and Gwennie 
is getting every attention. Of course, I’ve never 
been there, nor has Grenville, although he sends 
him toys and things. I really don’t think the 
child will live much longer. The last report I 




SINKING SANDS 


257 


had from the nursery was that he was suffering 
from pernicious anaemia. It’s really very pa¬ 
thetic.” 

“Quite too pathetic for me,” declared Iris; 
“and exceeding all bounds of reason that I should 
be morally accountable for his welfare, especially 
without his father’s authorization.” 

Then Honoria spoke, and there was a fiery 
glint of defiance in her hollow eyes. “Just the 
same I’ve given orders that he shall be brought 
to this house to-morrow. I mean to look after 
him myself if you won’t. We’ll turn the extra 
room on the second floor into a nursery, and 
install a nurse-” 

Iris sprang to her feet. “Is this my house or 
yours?” she exclaimed excitedly. 

Honoria rose and faced her. “You foolish 
woman! Can’t you see the peril we are all in? 
Something like the hand of God threatens to 
crush us, to destroy the house of Karley. I feel 

it closing in about us-” she paused as Iris 

gave a little quivering laugh. “Perhaps you don’t 
know that suspicion is now directed towards 
Grenville for the murder of Rodney Webb,” she 
continued. “There may be someone watching 
this house at this very moment. It was never 




258 


FIRES OF FATE 


really proved that Anne Karley struck the fatal 
blow. The accusing finger is now raised-” 

“Have you lost your mind?” Iris interrupted 
fiercely. 

“No, I’m perfectly rational,” replied the aunt, 
with sudden self-control. “It was only recently 
that I learned that Rodney Webb had in his pos¬ 
session a paper which would have spelt Gren¬ 
ville’s political ruin. This paper established the 
motive for Anne’s visit to Rodney that evening. 
It was not brought out at the trial, but she went 
there to get that document, whatever it was, to 
save her husband.” 

“Who told you all of this nonsense?” There 
was a light of flame-like green in the eyes of Iris. 

“Grenville,” came the faltering reply. “The 
day after your first quarrel. You remember he 
got drunk and spent the night at my house ? He 
knocked at my bedroom door sometime towards 
morning, said he couldn’t sleep, that he wanted 
to tell me something. I heard him out, but it was 
all indefinite. But it seemed to ease his mind. 
The next day he had no recollection of what he 
had said to me.” 

“It isn’t true,” cried Iris. “Anne was the last 
person on earth to do a thing like that. And it’s 



SINKING SANDS 259 

cowardly for you to make such an accusation in 
Grenville’s absence.” 

“It’s God’s truth,” Honoria came back; “and 
it has opened my eyes to the fact that she was a 
loyal and true wife to him. She martyred herself 
to save him. If this one fact had been disclosed 
she might have gone free.” 

“But it wasn’t, so why should we worry our 
heads about it? I spoke the truth. I’ve nothing 
to fear.” 

“We perjured ourselves, every one of us,” 
Honoria declared impulsively. She advanced a 
few steps towards Iris. “Don’t be a fool. Have 
the conscience, like myself, to admit of prejudice, 
of perjury.” 

Iris challenged her. “I refuse absolutely to 
stand before the world dishonored through any 
act of yours or of Grenville’s—that is, if things 
come to the worst.” 

“But we’ve got to sacrifice something, even 
truth,” the aunt declared, “if we mean to carry 
out our plan successfully. And for goodness’ 
sake, don’t mention to Grenville what I’ve told 
you in confidence. Make it as pleasant for him 
as you can. He needs us both. But I must 
hurry off to make up my list.” 


260 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Your list?” asked Iris curiously. 

Honoria retraced her steps. “I didn’t mean to 
tell you until to-morrow,” she purred, “but I’m 
going to send out verbal invitations for a dance 
on Friday night at the Ritz.” 

“A dance?” Iris echoed, stunned. 

“Just another little plan of mine,” responded 
Honoria, “as an antidote to the poison that is 
affecting the public’s mind. We must show the 
world that you and Grenville are living in perfect 
harmony in spite of this scandal. We must allay 
suspicion.” 

At that moment Grenville walked in upon 
them unexpectedly. The aunt left the room. 

He remained silent. “Well, is it quits? Or 
shall we keep up this sham a little longer?” Iris 
asked bluntly. 

This sudden interrogation took Grenville 
completely by surprise. “Naturally, I can ex¬ 
pect no sympathy from you,” he said finally. “I 
don’t ask it.” 

Iris disregarded the thrust. “I question if we 
can humbug the public much longer,” she said 
bitterly. “Still, they say it’s fatal to turn tail to 
a wild beast, or to scandal.” 

Grenville softened a little. “For the sake of 


SINKING SANDS 261 

happier days/’ he ventured, “you might make 
some concessions.” 

Iris stood cold and unmoved. “I’m utterly 
selfish,” she confessed. “I’m thinking only of 
myself. But what I’ve agreed to do, fortunately 
will serve your interests as well as my own.” 

Grenville gazed at her questioningly. “Agree¬ 
ment?” 

“Your aunt has come to our rescue. She has 
a plan, and it looks very promising.” 

“Damn her interference!” Grenville’s eyes 
blazed. 

“You never did have the capacity to take 
punishment,” Iris commented tersely. 

“What’s the agreement?” 

“I’ve given my consent to have Gwennie 
brought here, and to act as hostess at a dance at 
the Bitz on Friday night.” 

Grenville groaned. “I won’t stand for it,” 
he exclaimed. “I’m in no condition to have a 
sick child on my hands. Gwennie is better off 
where he is. As for the dance, why, Honoria 
must be losing her mind. She’s gone crazy.” He 
flung up his hands. 

“It’s a moral antidote, and you’ve got to take 
your medicine,” Iris declared. “As a man now 


262 


FIRES OF FATE 


of public affairs, you must try and win back the 
confidence of the people who elected you to 
office. This is the quickest and surest way, and 
the least risk—to myself.” 

“Always for yourself,” Grenville remonstrated. 

“Exactly,” was the prompt response. “I’ve 
agreed to your aunt’s plan, and I’m tolerating 
you now, to keep from getting my own skirts 
soiled.” 

She had him at a disadvantage, and Grenville 
knew it. “I’ll agree to anything,” he said, “pro¬ 
viding you promise to reconsider what you just 
said about, well, about quitting me.” 

“I’m willing to go on till things have righted 
themselves,” she said calmly. “Isn’t that 
enough?” 

Grenville came to her side, and laid his hand 
appealingly upon her arm. “Don’t forsake me,” 
he breathed. “For God’s sake, don’t!” 

Iris let his hand remain while she looked at him 
with cynical tolerance. “You know we’re not on 
the terms of affection necessary for married life. 
We really never suited each other, and never 
should have married.” 

As he slouched forward, she caught him by 
both arms. “Pull yourself together.” His weak- 


SINKING SANDS 


263 


ness, his helplessness, for a moment, almost got 
the best of her. 

“What do you know—what do you suspect?” 
he asked, showing what was uppermost in his 
mind. His affair with the beautiful dancer was 
still secondary in his thoughts. 

Iris met his gaze stoically. “I know this,” she 
said, “that you can’t stifle truth much longer. 
And I suspect—that you are a coward.” 

After she had gone from the room, he sank 
down into the nearest chair. And there Honoria 
found him a few minutes later. His face had a 
haggard, anguished expression. He gave a 
nervous start when his aunt leaned over him. 
“What’s wrong?” she asked. 

Grenville, with staring eyes, caught hold of 
her arm and drew her down closer to him. “I 
saw her—Anne—this afternoon,” he muttered. 
“She’s come back.” 

Honoria’s face became ashy white; she caught 
her breath. Then she mastered her own haunting 
fears with sudden self-control. “Why, Anne is 
dead and buried,” she said. 

“I tell you, I saw her,” Grenville went on. 
“There was to have been a sale of Rodney’s 
things to-morrow, and I dropped into the Rem- 


264 


FIRES OF FATE 


brandt out of curiosity. There was hardly any¬ 
one about. The front room was dark. It was 
there I saw her face as plainly as I see yours 
now.” 

“That’s a matter between yourself and your 
conscience,” returned Honoria imperiously. 

He looked at his aunt aghast. “Surely you 
don’t think that I had anything to do with 
Rodney Webb’s murder?” 

Honoria shook her head sadly. “You’ve been 
a great disappointment to me, Grenville,” she 
complained bitterly, and left the room. 

He followed her to the foot of the stairs, but 
she passed up unheeding. This sudden depriva¬ 
tion of sympathy, first from Iris, and now from 
a source least expected, unnerved him as nothing 
else had done. 

And into this house of suspicion and dread 
came a little ghost of a child, in whose big sunken 
eyes were reflected the terror of lonesomeness 
and neglect; and who kept pleading with his 
nurse, with pitiful entreaty, not to leave him 
alone in the dark. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE AVENGER OF BLOOD 

T HE problem left for Anne’s solution, after 
Grenville’s hurried departure from the 
Rembrandt, was to effect a quick get¬ 
away without detection. It occurred to her 
that the strange man, whom she had overheard 
conversing with Grenville, must have made his 
departure from the rear of the apartment; she 
recalled having heard a door slam. 

Returning to the living room, she happened 
to notice a slight movement of a piece of tap¬ 
estry, hung in panel effect against the outside 
wall. When she placed her hand near it, she 
discovered a draught of air. 

Then came a surprising revelation. The tap¬ 
estry concealed a door, evidently long in disuse. 
The lock on the door was broken. Opening it 
cautiously, she saw that the doorway had been 
boarded up on the outside. Several of the boards 
had been removed. 


265 


266 


FIRES OF FATE 


She crept through the opening, closing the 
door softly behind her, and down into a narrow 
areaway. This led back a considerable distance, 
between the high brick walls of two apartment 
buildings, recently constructed. The passage¬ 
way had not as yet been walled up. She saw 
that it opened into the street, a block removed 
from the Rembrandt. 

She had just turned into this narrow passage¬ 
way when she espied the disappearing figure of 
a man. Evidently he had not seen her. She had 
the occult sense that this was the man whose 
voice she had heard. He wore a long overcoat, 
rather too large for him, and a gray cap; and 
he slouched as he walked. 

She picked up the trail of the gray cap at the 
end of the passageway, where she was afforded 
a side view of the man’s face as he turned ab¬ 
ruptly to the right. But it was too dark now 
to see his features plainly. He had been swal¬ 
lowed up in the clutter and shadows of the street. 

A policeman strolled by. She caught the flash 
of his badge of authority in the electric glare. 
Although she turned away, she felt his eyes upon 
her; she was positive he had stopped and was 
regarding her as a suspicious person. 


THE AVENGER OF BLOOD 267 


All the old-time horror descended upon her. 
Above the din of her ears, she could hear again 
the creaking of prison gates, the drawing of 
bolts, the clicking of great locks, the jangling of 
keys. Arrested as a suspicious person, she would 
be arraigned in court, and her identity revealed. 
Why not give herself up now? With a little 
convulsive cry she wheeled around, to find that 
the policeman had passed on. 

The incident left her helpless and unnerved, 
but by the time she had reached the rooming- 
house, mind and soul had succumbed once more 
to the bondage of one idea: to exact recompense 
for all that she had suffered, for the injustice that 
had been done her. 

At the appointed hour she called on Mile. 
Straluski. 

“I hope you didn’t expect me to call in my 
paint and feathers,” said Anne over her cup of 
tea. 

“It rather spoils what you say, ze illusion,” 
replied the dancer; “but it really doesn’t matter. 
You look tres chic as you are-” 

“In my store clothes?” Anne interposed. 

“But why all black? Are you in mourning?” 

“Yes; for my sins,” was the swift response. 



268 


FIRES OF FATE 


The dancer smiled. “How unpleasant it must 
be to have ze conscience,” she commented lan¬ 
guidly. “But come, tell me some of your ex¬ 
periences wis ze men. Was it an Indian, or a 
white man, zat made you suffer so?” 

Anne hesitated a moment before replying. 
“You seem to live in such a nice dream,” she said 
presently; “I don’t wish to spoil it. You have 
so many admirers,” indicating the many photo¬ 
graphs scattered about the room, some in silver 
holders emblazoned with coats-of-arms, “I would 
not like to spoil your faith in them.” Then she 
pointed to a photograph of Grenville, propped 
up against a cloisonne vase upon the piano. She 
had glimpsed it the moment she had entered the 
room. “Surely, you would not like to have your 
faith destroyed in a nice-looking man like that?” 

Her little play of strategy brought results 
sooner than she had expected. The dancer, hav¬ 
ing obviously overlooked the photograph in her 
recent tantrums, rose from the lounge, where 
she had been so luxuriously ensconced, and made 
a bee-line for the piano. She picked up the 
photograph, tore it into bits, and then threw them 
into an empty flower bowl. “I hate him! I hate 
him!” she exclaimed. 


THE AVENGER OF BLOOD 269 


“Oh, I’m so sorry—for the man,” Anne com¬ 
mented. 

“I’m ze one to be pitied,” cried Mile. Stra- 
luski, pacing the floor; 

“Who is he?” Anne inquired with perfect 
naivete. 

The dancer stopped short. “Do you not read 
ze newspapers?” she gasped. When Anne im¬ 
plied that she did not, the dancer went on: “Oh, 
what a stupid life you must lead. Why, my maid, 
my chauffeur, even ze charwoman, everybody in 
New York, zay read about me and zis rich Gren¬ 
ville Karley. Zis morning, ze Evening Gazette 
—zay publish ze evening papers in ze morning 
in America—it had a wonderful picture of me. 
I love zat paper.” 

“But there are other newspapers,” Anne put 
in casually. 

“Ah, but ze Evening Gazette is what you call 
ze great political enemy of M’sieu Karley. Zat 
is ze reason I like it. Ze editor is so fearless. 
Zis morning he called M’sieu Karley a waster, 
a profligate, a traitor to ze people. He say also 
zat he cruelly deserted his first wife who was 
sent to prison unjustly and died there; also zat 
he is an unnatural father, and zat he neglects zis 


270 


FIRES OF FATE 


woman’s child.” She paused. “Why do you look 
at me so funny?” 

Anne quickly regained control of herself. “It 
all seems so strange to me,” she said. 

The dancer passed it up lightly. “All ze other 
papers say zat I am ze beautiful vamp, ze play- 
zing of kings, ze wrecker of homes. Oh, I love 
zat!” 

“But you’re not really wicked?” Anne inter¬ 
rogated, innocently enough. 

Mile. Straluski approached her, and spoke con¬ 
fidingly. “To ze public I am ze wicked vamp, 
but in private life I am ze respectable married 
lady. My husband he play ze trombone in ze 
orchestra, and he looks like ze base drum, very 
round. But it is my business to advertise myself, 
and my husband he has no scruples in my making 
a little money on ze side. Ze Americans call it 
hush money.” 

Anne pretended not to understand. The 
dancer continued. “You have ze mind of ze 
little infant,” she said. “All ze same, I like your 
sang-froid, your artlessness. But I have ze great 
mind for business. It is good business to ask 
big money for ze return of love letters.” 


THE AVENGER OF BLOOD 271 


“You mean M’sieu Karley’s letters?” Anne 
asked, with affected nonchalance. 

Mile. Straluski regarded her a moment curi¬ 
ously, then sat down beside her. “I like you, 
and now I tell you everyzing. I must tell some¬ 
body. I am like ze red-hot boiler—I must let 
off steam.” 

Although Anne tried to appear disinterested 
through the rather dramatic recital, she would 
put a question now and then. 

“Now, zat he ees reconciled wis his wife, he 
wants his letters back,” the dancer was saying. 

This was news to Anne. “Are the letters 
worth so much?” she asked, without seeming to 
care whether they were or not. 

“You shall judge for yourself.” 

Mile. Straluski rose, walked to the secretaire, 
and produced a bundle of letters, tied round with 
a bit of red ribbon. She showed them to Anne, 
who recognized the handwriting without a 
tremor. “If M’sieu Karley will not pay my 
price for zese letters,” the dancer declared im¬ 
pulsively, “zen I will show him up in ze news¬ 
paper.” 

“What would you do?” 

“I would have zem all published in ze Eve - 


272 


FIRES OF FATE 


ning Gazette. Zat would fix him.” She put 
back the letters. 

So far Anne felt that she had put the dancer 
completely off her guard. 

A telephone bell tinkled somewhere. Mile. 
Straluski hurried off to answer it. Presently 
her voice, rather high-pitched, floated from the 
adjoining room. 

The time had come. Gliding stealthily to the 
secretaire, Anne took the coveted letters from the 
drawer. In their place she substituted a bundle 
of letters picked up at random, topped with one 
of Grenville’s letters, and tied with the same bit 
of ribbon. Hastily secreting the love letters in 
her handbag, she had just time to retrace her 
steps, when Mile. Straluski re-entered the room. 

“M’sieu Karley’s lawyer he just talk to me 
over the ‘phone,’ ” she announced. “He say zay 
will meet my terms, but zat I must wait till next 
week. M’sieu Karley he ees too busy making 
up wis his wife. Zay are giving ze big dance 
to-night at ze Ritz. But I know, it ees only to 
fool ze public.” 

Then, to Anne’s trepidation, she walked over 
to the secretaire and began to rummage among 
her letters, strewn carelessly about. “I am look- 


THE AVENGER OF BLOOD 273 


ing for ze receipt for ze purse,” she explained. 

“I’m sure I gave it back to you,” said Anne. 

“Yes; here it ees,” the dancer announced. She 
picked it up, and then stuffed it away in the 
same drawer containing the letters. 

Anne breathed easier when the dancer closed 
the drawer, and she realized that her little trick 
of deception had worked successfully. She left 
a few minutes later. And as Samson prayed to 
God that he might be avenged of the Philistines, 
so she prayed that her strength of purpose would 
not fail her. The house of Karley, like the house 
of Dagon, she would utterly destroy; pull it 
down like a house of cards. She was the avenger 
of blood. 

Under the cover of night she crept from the 
rooming-house, and made for the editorial offices 
of the Evening Gazette . She rode part way, 
then became frightened and suspicious of an 
oldish man who kept ogling her. Leaving the 
car, she walked the rest of the way, after satis¬ 
fying herself that she was not being followed; 
always that haunting fear of detection. She 
crossed the street several times in order to avoid 
a policeman on the corner. Once she gave a 
convulsive clutch at her handbag. It was open. 


274 


FIRES OF FATE 


The priceless letters had been lost. Then she 
found them stuffed away at the bottom. 

Another time she stopped short. The risk was 
too great for her to undertake the delivery of the 
letters. How could she prove their genuineness 
without revealing her own identity? Still, she 
kept on, hoping against hope. She steeled herself 
for this last effort, and entered the Evening 
Gazette building. 

Whisked upwards, she stepped out into a small 
reception office, which she entered with veil 
drawn. Two men were conversing; one of them, 
she noticed, was in his shirt sleeves. She ap¬ 
proached the boy at the door which opened into 
the city news room, and asked to see the City 
Editor. The boy returned shortly, and she was 
told to “wait a few minutes.” 

Presently a young man rushed through the 
room with an armful of papers, just off the 
press. The man in shirt sleeves took one, and 
another was tossed upon the table in front of her. 
But she could only read the headlines dimly 
through her heavy veil. She felt somehow secure 
behind it. 

Evidently the glaring headlines on the front 
page had to do with a news story of importance. 


THE AVENGER OF BLOOD 275 


for she heard the man in shirt sleeves remark: 
“Good story, and we’re playing it up for all it’s 
worth.” Then a little later: “Too bad about 
the kid.” Followed almost immediately by: 
“Funny piece of business all around.” Then the 
other man spoke up. “I’m still inclined to be¬ 
lieve there was a jealous woman back of it all.” 

After they had gone, an electric buzzer aroused 
the doorboy from his tale of adventure; he must 
have been in a very exciting part, for he slapped 
it down impatiently on the desk before answering 
the call from the city room. Anne took the sig¬ 
nal to mean that she was about to be summoned 
inside. She rose, and instinctively thrust her 
hand into the bag to satisfy herself that the let¬ 
ters were still there. Her purpose was to give 
them over into accredited hands, and swear 
to their authenticity without revealing who she 
was, or how she got them. 

As an emissary of revenge, her face grew hard 
and cold, and she clenched her hand until her 
nails tore into the tender flesh of her palm. 

She was standing by the table now. She hap¬ 
pened to glance down at the newspaper spread 
out before her. After the first hasty glance, she 
raised her veil. A moment of tenseness ensued. 


276 


FIRES OF FATE 


Then she gave a little shuddering cry of anguish. 

Gwennie was dying. 

She read the awful news in the headlines. Her 
little son had been stricken, and was not expected 
to live through the night. 

She read on a little farther. As a last hope, 
the physicians in charge had decided upon blood 
transfusion; they were calling for a volunteer— 
here the lines blurred. 

All the hardness and cruelty left her face; the 
blaze of vengeance died away in her eyes; her 
fingers relaxed their hold upon the letters, the 
weapon of retaliation. 

She heard the door boy returning. Without 
another moment’s hesitation, she hurried out into 
the hall. The elevator door was open. She 
stepped inside, and dropped out of sight. 


CHAPTER XXII 


A WORLD OF GLASS 

D R. JEX made no pretence at being a 
psychoanalyst; nor did he believe in 
ghosts. He was just plain physician and 
surgeon. Yet the rapid sequence of events in 
the lives of those closely connected with the 
mysterious case of Rodney Webb and the whis¬ 
perings that seemed to come out of the air, gave 
him some concern. His inquiry into the case had 
been perfunctory, and the new evidence he had 
turned up, of really no great importance. He 
suspected no one—had no good reason to suspect 
anyone. 

The afternoon was just drawing to a close 
when Grenville was announced. And the doctor 
gazed in frank astonishment at the man who came 
stumbling into his private office. The change 
that had taken place in him was almost uncanny; 
his face was full of lines, his eyes sunken, and his 
fingers twitched. 


277 


278 


FIRES OF FATE 


“Well, what can I do for you, Senator?” The 
doctor’s voice was cheery. 

Grenville pulled himself together. “I just 
dropped in to pay a bill long overdue,” he said. 

“Oh, bills are my least trouble,” said the doc¬ 
tor airily. 

“But I wish to settle it up now, if you don’t 
mind,” said Grenville concisely. 

The transaction was soon over with. Gren¬ 
ville lapsed again into silence, although his hands 
and eyes were never still; once he cast a nervous 
glance through the window. 

“I’ve just been reading that you have Gwen- 
nie with you now,” the doctor broke the tense¬ 
ness of reticence. 

“Yes; we felt he wasn’t being looked after 
properly at the nursery,” came the reply. “He’s 
still in a very delicate condition, and a great 
charge for Iris. She’s not used to children, you 
know.” 

“Evidently not so ill as to interfere with your 
social duties.” There was a hint of asperity in 
the doctor’s voice. 

Grenville looked at him questioningly. “Oh, 
you mean the dance at the Ritz to-night? Aunt 
Honoria is responsible for that. She’s always 


A WORLD OF GLASS 279 

thinking up something to make me uncom¬ 
fortable.” 

Dr. Jex passed up the subject. “I don’t think 
I’ve seen you since the day of the polo game, 
almost a year ago. Many tragic things have 
happened since then.” 

“Yes, and if much more happens I’ll go mad.” 
Grenville lost control of himself for a moment; 
he ran his fingers nervously through his hair. 
“You were abroad when Rodney Webb was— 
was murdered, I believe.” He shuddered. “I 
never thought Anne was that sort of woman,” 
he added bitterly. 

Dr. Jex’s eyes lighted up instantly. “She 
wasn’t, and you know it,” he came back at him. 

Grenville cringed a little. “Well, the jury 
thought so,” he said. 

“If she could only have lived to have seen her 
name cleared of this awful charge,” the doctor 
put in abruptly. 

“You think that’s likely?” 

“Absolutely,” the doctor returned with deep 
conviction. “Her sad death has only delayed for 
a short time what is bound to come, complete 
vindication.” 

“Maybe she isn’t dead,” Grenville muttered. 


280 


FIRES OF FATE 


Dr. Jex regarded him intently. “What makes 
you think that?” 

“Because I saw her the other afternoon,” was 
the frank reply. 

Grenville then related something of his ex¬ 
periences at Rodney’s apartment. “I saw her 
face,” he exclaimed; “it was living flesh and 
blood.” 

“But you can’t prove it,” said the doctor, 
skeptically. 

“It was no delusion. I tell you, I saw her as 
plainly as I see you now.” 

“Nonsense,” said the doctor. 

Grenville looked at him warily. “You’ve been 
taking great interest in the case lately, I under¬ 
stand,” he said, seemingly more composed. “Nat¬ 
urally you wish to see Anne’s name cleared. We 

all should for that matter. But-” and he 

leaned far forward in his chair, “it is rather 
annoying that you should endeavor to incrim¬ 
inate me.” He punctuated his remark with a 
laugh. 

The doctor was plainly puzzled. Of all per¬ 
sons he had never suspected that the Senator was 
in any way criminally involved. 

“I’ve known for some time,” Grenville went 



A WORLD OF GLASS 


281 


on blandly, “that you’ve had me shadowed. And 
your man is a very clever detective although he 
never detects anything. I first became aware of 
his presence when we were down at White Sul¬ 
phur Springs. He was disguised as a chauffeur. 
He followed me everywhere, about the golf links, 
along the mountain paths, and then suddenly 
disappeared.” 

The doctor listened in great amazement, but 
hiding his concern. 

“I saw him again,” Grenville resumed, “while 
I was dining at the Ambassador. This time he 
was disguised as a waiter. But I lost sight of 
him before dinner was over.” 

Beads of sweat were standing out on his brow. 
He whipped out his handkerchief to mop his fore¬ 
head, and as he did so a bit of paper, the fly leaf 
from a memorandum book, fell from his coat 
pocket, and became lodged in the back of the 
leather cushion. Dr. Jex lit a fresh cigar, to 
tide over the momentary silence. 

“Now, I find that your man has been watching 
my house for the last few days,” Grenville picked 
up the thread of his strange remarks. “He fol¬ 
lowed me downtown yesterday in the subway. 
He sat opposite me and pretended to be reading 


282 


FIRES OF FATE 


a paper. I threw him off the scent, and came 
uptown by taxi. This morning my chauffeur 
’phoned me he was ill, and that he was sending a 
substitute. When I came out of the house to 
drive here, this substitute chauffeur was no other 
than this damn detective of yours. So I walked 
here. But I’m sure he followed me.” He rose 
and walked to the window. Drawing aside the 
curtain he exclaimed: “There he is now, across 
the street, hiding in the areaway. I can just see 
his shadow. Come, and see for yourself.” 

Dr. Jex stood unmoved. Grenville turned, 
and advanced towards him threateningly. “But 
you’ve got nothing on me, doctor,” he shouted. 

The doctor motioned silence. “You’re a vic¬ 
tim of your own imagination,” he declared, 
calmly. “It never occurred to me that you were 
in any way implicated in the crime. I did em¬ 
ploy a private detective, but it was not to shadow 
you.” 

Grenville gave a choking sound, and retreated 
a few steps. “Of course you will understand that 
I was only joking,” he said, with a little shudder¬ 
ing laugh. “You will take it as a joke?” 

“Oh, assuredly,” was the cheerful reply. Then 
the doctor walked over and laid his hand upon 


A WORLD OF GLASS 


283 


the Senator’s shoulder. “You’d better drop 
everything, and take a good long rest,” he urged. 

“Perhaps I’d better,” muttered Grenville. He 
faced the doctor squarely. “I think you ought 
to know that Gwennie is in very bad shape. 
We’ve called in a couple of doctors,” mention¬ 
ing them by name, “and we may need you.” 

“I’m ready to come when called upon,” the 
doctor rejoined in a kindly tone. 

“I’m not myself,” Grenville went on almost 
incoherently; “and if anything happens, I want 
you to look after Gwennie. I’ve made Honoria 
and Iris promise not to stand in your way.” 
And without another word he slunk out of the 
room. 

The doctor gazed after him wonderingly and 
in pity; he faced the bitter truth. Grenville was 
living in a world of glass, and was being pursued 
by his own shadow. Was it remorse? Or what? 

A little later, his secretary handed him a loose 
memorandum blank, bearing an address, which 
he had found on the leather chair recently occu¬ 
pied by Grenville. The doctor attached no sig¬ 
nificance to it, nor did it occur to him that the 
Senator might have dropped it. He glanced 


284 


FIRES OF FATE 


hastily at the writing, then stuffed it in his waist¬ 
coat pocket as he left the room. 

About eight-thirty o’clock, a call came from 
the Karley home. Gwennie was rapidly growing 
weaker, and the physicians in charge of the case 
wanted him to join them in consultation. They 
had given up all hope. Would he come at once? 


CHAPTER XXIII 


OUT OF THE NIGHT 


D R. JEX bent over the bedside of Gwen- 
nie, and said very gravely: “There’s 
only one hope of saving his life—blood 
transfusion.” 

The problem immediately rose how to find a 
person willing to give his blood, and at the 
soonest possible moment. A call for a volun¬ 
teer was sent at once to the various hospitals. 
Expediency was the note of the hour. The op¬ 
eration of transfusion must be performed before 
morning if the child’s life was to be saved; until 
that time the patient could be kept alive on stim¬ 
ulants. 

After the consultation, Dr. Jex was forced to 
hurry away upon another emergency case. He 
planned to return shortly after midnight. 

The occasional jingling of the telephone bell 
was the only sound to break the tomblike silence 
of the house. Presently it ceased altogether. 

285 


286 


FIRES OF FATE 

It was about one o’clock when the pull-bell 
of the service entrance echoed up the stairs. A 
few moments later the butler tiptoed into the 
room which adjoined the nursery, and announced, 
in low tones, that a strange woman had called, 
and desired to speak with one of the physicians. 
The younger of the two went down immediately 
into the servants’ hall, where a veiled woman was 
waiting in the semi-gloom. 

Anne had schooled herself for the ordeal. With 
supreme self-control she told the physician that 
she had heard of the child’s critical condition, and 
had come to offer her blood for the transfusion. 
She did not expect any compensation; the only 
condition she would exact would be secrecy. She 
was a mother herself, she added, with a little 
catch in her voice, and had good reasons for 
keeping her identity unknown, even to the family. 

Although she had resolved to face the worst, 
and was coolly indifferent to whatever Fate held 
in store for her, Anne felt relieved to learn that 
the family was absent; and such was the exigency 
of the case that the physician was only too glad to 
comply with her wishes. 

She followed the physician tremulously up¬ 
stairs, and quietly submitted to preliminary ex- 


OUT OF THE NIGHT 


287 


amination and the testing of her blood. When 
she removed her veil, showing the deep duskiness 
of her complexion, she met the questioning gaze of 
the physicians with swift candor. She was a pure- 
blooded white. Her bared shoulder and arm 
proved that. Her veins were rich in pulsing red 
blood. 

Gwennie, by this time, had rallied a little after 
his first natural sleep in twenty-four hours; and 
to take advantage of his slightly improved con¬ 
dition, the physicians decided to perform the 
operation at once. 

Anne steeled herself against any betrayal of 
emotion. Through the half open door she could 
see the little white bed in which Gwennie was 
lying. She was ready now for the trial, and she 
knew it would be a severe one. The physicians 
were flitting here and there. Presently the nurse, 
a sweet-faced motherly sort of woman, came over 
and drew a chair up beside her. She laid her 
hand tenderly upon her own. 

“We had despaired of getting anyone to¬ 
night,’’ she said in a low tone of voice. “I’ve 
only been with the child a short time, but I’ve 
grown to love him. He’s such a lonely, forlorn 
little boy.” 


288 


FIRES OF FATE 


Anne smiled wanly. “I came just in time, 
didn’t I?” she breathed softly. 

“You must have come in answer to my pray¬ 
ers,” the nurse resumed, with some show of feel¬ 
ing. “It isn’t professional to pray, but I’ve been 
asking God all night to send someone. You’ll 
never miss what you’re giving, and it doesn’t take 
long.” 

“I’m not afraid,” Anne said softly. 

The nurse smiled reassuringly. “Half an hour 
after it’s over, you’ll be able to walk home. The 
weakness soon goes.” She rose to go, when Anne 
held out her hand appealingly. “You said some¬ 
thing about the child being so lonely.” 

“He’s motherless, you know,” came the re¬ 
sponse. 

Anne’s breast heaved; it was the only sign of 
what was going on inside of her. “Does he ever 
ask for his mother?” she ventured faintly. 

“Oh, he calls for his ‘muvver’ constantly.” The 
face of the nurse saddened as she spoke. “He’s 
never forgotten her.” She hurried away at the 
summons of the physician. 

Anne sat with half-closed eyes; there was a 
tightening of the cords of her throat, and her 


OUT OF THE NIGHT 


289 


lips kept quivering. “Gwennie! My poor little 
lonely boy!” she kept moaning to herself. 

When she was summoned into the nursery, she 
held onto the physician’s arm like a blind woman, 
for she had closed her eyes, not daring to trust 
herself. And she never opened them until the 
operation was over. At first she felt very weak 
and dizzy, and in the dim glow of the room the 
doctors and the nurse appeared like moving 
phantoms. Only once, as she was about to be 
led out of the nursery, did she look down into 
the thin face on the pillow,—a face like alabaster, 
and aureoled by hair as shimmery and golden as 
sunset clouds. She gave a little smothered cry, 
then smiled and said: “I’m all right. I just feel 
a little weak, that’s all.” 

She lay upon a couch in the adjoining room, 
dimly conscious of what was going on around 
her. She kept watching the faces of the nurse 
and doctors as they passed her. Was it good 
news—or bad? She wondered why they did not 
tell her. 

Yet why should she be told? What possible 
interest could she have in the child? She had 
come out of the night to offer her blood, and 
when she was strong enough she would pass out 


290 


FIRES OF FATE 


again into oblivion. Nobody would question her; 
perhaps nobody would care. 

She had done what she could. This thought 
alone seemed to strengthen her. She kept pray¬ 
ing softly to herself: “Oh, God, save him! Don’t 
let him die! Oh, God! God!.. 

As she became stronger she became more 
deeply conscious of her position. She recalled 
her mission to the newspaper office, her mission 
of hate, of revenge. But there was no hate in 
her heart now—only love. God is love. Never 
before had she felt so near to Him. 

Suddenly it occurred to her that she had left 
the incriminating letters in her handbag. Why 
had she not destroyed them? The nurse and the 
doctors were in the nursery; the door was partly 
closed. She espied her handbag lying on a chair 
by a reading table. She crept cautiously from 
the couch. She was weak in the knees, but she 
finally gained the chair by the table, and sank 
down listless for a moment in its comfortable 
depths. She had difficulty even in opening the 
bag. She was still terribly weak. She reached 
in and drew forth the letters just to make sure 
they were still there. As she did so she thought 
she heard someone enter the room from the hall. 


OUT OF THE NIGHT 


291 


But before she could turn, everything seemed 
to fade away. She sensed that someone was 
standing before her. She stretched out her hand, 
then looked up, and with a clear vision, recog¬ 
nized Dr. Jex. A sickening dread came over her; 
she sank back with a weak moan. Then she 
heard a voice very near say: “You’ve nothing to 
fear, Mrs. Karley. Keep very quiet now, and 
leave everything to me.” 

When she looked up again he had gone. She 
closed her eyes, and laid her head back wearily 
against the chair. Her strength seemed to re¬ 
turn now very quickly. When she again looked 
around in full consciousness, the doctor was 
standing by her side. She sensed that he had 
been watching her face; she wondered if he un¬ 
derstood the story that it told. But there was no 
questioning in his eyes, only a deep kindly light. 

He was the first to break the silence. “I’m 
sure Gwennie will pull through all right now,” 
he said. 

Anne gave a frightened glance over her shoul¬ 
der. “You must take me away,” she pleaded. 
“I couldn’t face Grenville—now.” 

Dr. Jex then betrayed something in his eyes 
that he had so far kept hidden. 


292 


FIRES OF FATE 


Anne’s keen intuitiveness had not entirely left 
her. “What’s happened?” she urged. 

Dr. Jex demurred. “When you’re stronger, 
I’ll tell you.” 

“I think I should be told.” She leaned for¬ 
ward in suspense. “Is Grenville . . . is he . . .?” 

Dr. Jex leaned over and laid his hand on hers. 
“Perhaps you should know,” he said. “It hap¬ 
pened about an hour ago. He’s dead.” 

Anne sank back with a moan. Deep silence 
ensued. Somewhere, out in the night, a clock 
struck two. 



CHAPTER XXIV 


THE BLACK FLOOD 

W HEN Dr. Jex left the Karley house 
after the consultation, he had two urgent 
calls pending; one, in lower Fifth Ave¬ 
nue, the other, far uptown. He took them in 
turn, as they had been received. And as his car 
bowled along towards Washington Square he 
began fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for the 
uptown address, to familiarize himself with the 
location. 

Instead of one slip of paper he produced two; 
and turning on the overhead light, he was 
surprised to find that they both bore the same 
address: 5 Riveredge Place. One was his secre¬ 
tary’s memorandum, and the other, the loose leaf 
that someone evidently had dropped in his office. 
The difference was that his own contained more 
specific directions for reaching the address. He 
read: ‘‘Fifth Avenue to 145th St.—turn right— 
bridge—half block—past lumberyard—3rd house 
—top floor, front.” 


293 


294 


FIRES OF FATE 


His secretary’s abbreviated directions, taken 
over the telephone, were perfectly intelligible. 
But where did this second address come from? 
And almost simultaneously with the thought, he 
exclaimed, half aloud: “Senator Karley!” 

There was an expression of perplexed amaze¬ 
ment upon his kindly face when he finally started 
uptown, after a longer lapse of time than he had 
anticipated. 

Riveredge Place was a short, mean street, just 
a block removed from the river front, and lined 
with ramshackle dwellings of frame; it was 
deserted at this hour of the night, and unpleas¬ 
antly suggestive of river front thugs. Lights 
gleamed fitfully here and there. No. 5 was a 
three family affair; the hall smelly, and lighted 
only by a single gas-jet. 

The chauffeur, as a matter of precaution, ac¬ 
companied the doctor to the top floor. Their 
footfalls brought forth a red-visaged, middle- 
aged woman, who waited for them at the top 
landing. It was evident that she was expecting 
the doctor’s arrival, for the moment he reached 
the top, she pointed to the door of what appeared 
to be a small hall-room. 

“He’s very low, sir,” she said; and she had a 



THE BLACK FLOOD 


295 


rather pleasing voice. She evinced surprise when 
the doctor, after recovering his wind, asked her 
the patient’s name. 

“I thought you knew him, sir,” she resumed. 
“He seemed to know all about you, and had me 
’phone to your office from the drug-store. He 
sent my husband downtown at the same time 
with a note for the other gentleman that’s called 
on him afore. His name, sir, is—Mr. Peck. 
He’s been one of my best lodgers, and pays his 
rent regular as clockwork.” 

Dr. Jex had no recollection of a Mr. Peck. 
“What’s his business?” he inquired further. 

“He’s very close-mouthed about that, sir,” 
came the quick reply; “but he seems to have 
enough to live on comfortably. I’m sure he’s 
seen better days.” 

Dr. Jex entered the room. A smelly kerosene 
lamp was burning on a small, bamboo-legged 
stand by the cot on which the patient lay. The 
doctor’s first move was to open the window. At 
first glance, he saw that the man was a stranger. 
He was middle-aged, with sparse, grayish hair. 
As he drew down the coverlets, the patient labored 
for breath. He was in a coma. And it did not 


296 


FIRES OF FATE 


take the doctor long to discover that he was 
dying, and dying fast. 

His only hope now was to get him out of the 
coma. After the first restorative measures, he 
sat down beside the cot, to await the first signs 
of returning consciousness. He noticed the pa¬ 
tient’s skin had a decided yellowish tinge; the 
fever had dried it like parchment. An hour 
passed. 

Dr. Jex, bending over the dying stranger, 
watched the first signs of returning conscious¬ 
ness : quickening of the breath, fluttering eyelids, 
and then the stare of a soul, poised on the edge of 
eternity, as it tries to find its bearings. He laid 
his hand tenderly upon the man’s brow, moist 
and cold. The man spoke, but his words were 
inarticulate. Then he drew one hand up towards 
the pillow. 

Dr. Jex, following the direction, placed his 
hand under the pillow, and drew forth a leather 
wallet, between the folds of which was a folded 
sheet of foolscap paper. Then he caught the 
words: “Read . . . sign.” 

The dying man had just strength enough to 
affix his signature to the contents of the paper, 
but the name he signed was not Peck. 


THE BLACK FLOOD 


297 


As the revelation flashed over him, Dr. Jex 
knelt by the side of the cot. “God have mercy 
upon your soul!” he breathed reverently. The 
man raised his hand again, and it appeared to the 
doctor that he made the sign of the cross. The 
next moment he lay in the stillness and coldness 
of death. 

As death took its toll at 5 Riveredge Place, 
Grenville was racing north in his car. His one 
thought now was to save himself. There was no 
telling what a dying man might do; a stroke of 
the pen and he would be doomed. His purpose 
was to reach No. 5 in time to destroy all papers, 
all evidence, if the man died before he reached 
there, and before the arrival of the coroner. 

The note that had been delivered to him at the 
Ritz at the height of the dance, calling him to the 
bedside of a dying man, had come upon him, the 
startling import of it, like a black flood, sweeping 
away all his self-confidence and leaving his senses 
stunned. 

As he shot down West 145th Street, for the 
traffic regulations were relaxed at this hour, he 
barely missed striking a woman crossing the 
street. He caught sight of her terrorized face, 
and somehow it reminded him of Anne. The 


298 


FIRES OF FATE 


delusion grew more vivid as he rushed on, until it 
became a spectre racing along with the car. He 
struck out at it with one hand as if to drive it 
away. 

Looming in his path was the great bridge; and 
it seemed to be moving like a gray phantom. 
Through the rising mist of the river, the lights 
shone out like eyes—eyes that see all, know all. 
The realization that the bridge was drawn for 
river traffic came to him in time to use his 
emergency brake; and he would have done so, 
had he not been seized with a newer and greater 
fear. 

The man was not dying ... it was a trick 
... he was riding into a trap. 

Yawning before him was release from all 
that he had suffered—fear, remorse. He put his 
foot down hard upon the accelerator. A shout 
of warning fell heedless upon his ears. He 
gripped the wheel, and closed his eyes . . . 

With terrific impact, the car tore through the 
gate that guarded the open draw. It left the 
roadway like a catapult, and shot through the air, 
its red tail-light gleaming like a falling meteor. 
A fearful splash, a shriek in the stilly night, and 
then uncanny silence. 


THE BLACK FLOOD 


299 


Half an hour later the police, grappling with 
hooks, brought Grenville’s body to the opposite 
shore, where it had been washed by the tide. It 
seemed like the irony of Fate that Dr. Jex should 
be the first to identify the body, his departure 
from the neighborhood having been delayed by 
the tragedy. 

The recognition, by the aid of the policeman’s 
flashlight, stunned him for a moment. The police 
called it an unavoidable accident. Perhaps they 
were right. Why should Grenville take his own 
life when he was not implicated in the crime? Dr. 
Jex knew this to be a certainty. The confession 
of the dead man, now in his possession, actually 
had established that fact. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE CONFESSION 

* mHE murderer’s confession seemed to be 
1 written in cipher. In the deep silence of 
the night, Dr. Jex translated it for Anne. 
At first glimpse, the lettering appeared to be 
jumbled, and it puzzled her; but the moment the 
doctor started to write it out rapidly in plain 
English, she understood perfectly. 

The first paragraph, in its original form, 
appeared like this: 

“tl saw ym dnah taht kcurts nwod yendoR 
bbeW. doG ytip em, a reredrum! I evah ton 
nwonk a lufecaep tnemom ecnis I delruh taht 
reggad otni sih traeh, dna tnes na tneconni 
namow ot tnemnosirpmi dna htaed.” 

Anne read the same paragraph, decoded, with 
quickened breath: 

* Note : To gain full knowledge of the confession, the reader must spell 
out each word backwards, of the paragraphs marked 1 and 2, and write 
them out in the order printed. 


300 


THE CONFESSION 


301 


“It was my hand that struck down Rodney 
Webb. God pity me, a murderer! I have not 
known a peaceful moment since I hurled that 
dagger into his heart, and sent an innocent 
woman to imprisonment and death.” 

She read on: 

“In the days of my wild youth, I was an expert 
boomerang and knife thrower, and I traveled for 
several years with the side-show of a circus. The 
sight of another woman in Rodney Webb’s arms 
seemed not only to drive me mad, but to bring 
back to me all of my former skill as a knife 
thrower. Concealed in the gloom of the living 
room, I hurled the fatal dagger between the 
parted curtains. I saw it go to its mark. I crept 
away unseen.” 

There was a questioning in Anne’s mind as she 
continued to decipher the strange document: 

(1) “redruM saw ni ym traeh nehw I dettimda 
srM yelraK otni eht tnemtrapa taht gnineve. ehS 
saw eht gnivil egami fo ym rethguad, yraM, ohw 
ym retsam os ylleurc deyarteb. tuB I did ton 
wonk taht eh dah deniur ym yraM litnu taht 


302 


FIRES OF FATE 


gninrom, nehw ehs dessefnoc gnihtyreve ot em. 
I dediced neht ot llik mih. tuB I ylno dediced 
nopu eht rennam fo htaed nehw I was srM 
yelraK gnildnah eht reggad ni eht llah. tl saw 
yldrawoc dna leurc, tub siht ytleurc smees ot eb 
nrob ni em, rof ni ym sniev swolf eht doolb fo eht 
egavas iroaM, tsuj sa eht naidnl doolb swolf ni 
eht sneiv fo ym rethguad. reH rehtom saw a 
dedoolb-lluf siouqorl, a hsiloof egairram I 
detcartnoc noos retfa gnimoc ot adanaC ot kees 
ym enutrof.” 

Anne shuddered and stopped reading. When 
Dr. Jex glanced up, she was sobbing softly to her¬ 
self. He kept his silence. Presently she seemed 
to get hold of herself, and read on: 

“The hall door was left open only as a ruse, and 
I wore gloves so as not to betray my identity by 
fingerprints. Up to the moment that I hurled 
the dagger, I did not think of incriminating the 
woman in Rodney Webb’s mad embrace. I swear 
that. But I managed to keep my nerve-” 

The confession trailed off here in cipher: 

(2) “I ylno denekaew eht tsal yad fo eht lairt. 
yM traeh delb rof siht namow gnireffus ni ym 



THE CONFESSION 


303 


daets. oS I dessefnoc ym emirc ot ym rethguad. 
oT ym esirprus ehs edam em raews no eht elbiB ot 
peek ym ecnelis. ehS deralced taht ehs enola dlouc 
enota rof ym elbirret nis. ehT txen yad ehs 
denrut revo ot em 11a fo reh efil sgnivas sa a 
rehcaet dna relaeh, dna neht deraeppasid. I 
reven was reh niaga. yM yraM tsum eb daed.” 

It was true, then. This strange woman had 
offered herself as a ransom. Anne read on hur¬ 
riedly, her breath coming brokenly, as the full 
revelation of the confession was placed before 
her: 

“Mary was very religious by nature, and a little 
queer in the head, I always thought. She had 
shifted for herself after her mother died, and had 
lived as a white woman, although she was a half- 
breed, and often visited her Indian kin up North. 
She was gifted with a strange power, and had a 
wonderful will. Rodney Webb was the only 
person who ever succeeded in breaking down this 
will. She called him an evil spirit—a demon. 
She said this psychic power of hers was a gift 
from God, and that her mission in life was to use 
it for good. She prayed constantly. Often she 
would say she had walked with God—had talked 


304 FIRES OF FATE 

with Him as Moses did on Mt. Sinai. She said 
the body meant nothing. That the soul of man 
was soon to come into its own, and all physical 
suffering would be at an end.” 

There was a questioning in Anne’s mind. How 
could she account for her striking resemblance 
to this woman called Mary? She turned once 
more to the document, and read: 

“My daughter declared that not only was she 
a physical double of Mrs. Karley, but that their 
souls were attuned; that they were like two units 
drawing together for some Eternal design; that 
Mrs. Karley was shackled, but that she, my 
daughter, would break these chains and send her 
out into a free world. Her last words to me were: 
T go to offer myself as a sacrifice for a great sin 
that has been committed for my sake.’ God alone 
knows what has become of my Mary.” 

The lettering here became rather faint, the 
unsteady scrawl of a dying man. To Anne, one 
fact stood out distinct—the murderer had died 
without knowing his daughter had actually made 
the great sacrifice. What a strange atonement! 
. . . She hurried through the concluding para¬ 
graph : 


THE CONFESSION 


305 


“I kept my oath of silence until Mrs. Karley 
died in prison, and then I confessed my crime to 
Senator Karley. I begged him to hand me over 
to the police. I wanted to clear the name of the 
woman who had suffered so unjustly. But he 
kept putting me off. He bought my silence with 
gold. I was too much of a coward to give myself 
up to the law. Then I fell ill. My conscience 
began to trouble me. I sent an anonymous note 
to a newspaper, setting forth that Bodney Webb 
had not met his death by a woman’s hand. This 
seemed to silence the voice of my conscience. 
Then I had a longing to visit the scene of my 
crime. I managed to enter the apartment by 
stealth. To my surprise, there I ran across Sen¬ 
ator Karley. We had it out. Again I pleaded 
with him to reveal everything, to clear his former 
wife’s name. But he cowed me into secrecy. I 
walked home in a daze. I fell unconscious at the 
door of my lodgings. Now, death stares me in 
the face. I confess my crime ... I wipe out 
the stain that has been placed upon an innocent 
woman’s name . . . God have mercy upon 

my soul ...” 

The confession was signed: 

“SEMAJ SREKCIW” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE DAWN 

T HE night for Anne had been too tense for 
sleep; she sat wide-eyed in the light of 
vindication that had come too late, and in 
the radiance of a dawn that was creeping over 
the housetops. 

The mystery of Rodney Webb’s death had 
been cleared up; it seemed so simple, now that 
she knew all the particulars. 

She was thankful that Grenville had had no 
part in the killing; his knowledge of the real 
perpetrator of the murder had made him an ac¬ 
cessory after the fact. And this knowledge had 
turned his world into glass, had haunted him, 
until he was finally driven to his doom. His race 
had run out; he had no real moral stamina; he 
couldn’t help himself. And she had tried so hard 
to be loyal to him, but he wouldn’t let her. 

How should she govern her life from now on? 
Was she not still a dead woman? She had pro- 

306 


THE DAWN 


307 


tested this fact to Dr. Jex, and he had replied: 
“Much better that you remain dead. It would 
be endless misery for you to come back, to try 
and take your place again in the world.” 

And he had promised her that the court would 
wipe the stain from her name, and rehabilitate 
her memory. He had told her of a soldier of 
France who had been shot for cowardice, and 
afterward declared innocent, the judgment of 
the court freeing his name from stain. 

What about Gwennie? Her heart cried out 
for her baby’s love. She wanted him; she needed 
him. 

The questioning was still in her mind, when 
she heard the chirp of sparrows. She rose and 
walked swiftly to the window, as in answer to a 
call—a call from out of the North. Was it Tom’s 
voice? 

What was there about this giant of the woods 
that could conquer this fugitive something within 
her? Suppose that she returned to him? What 
would he say? 

“Oh, I don’t want to do a thing that’s wrong,” 
she said, half-aloud and impulsively, to herself. 

Then came a still small voice which said: “Do 


308 FIRES OF FATE 

the right thing then, and call it wrong if you 
prefer.” 

Unseen forces had set her free, had righted a 
great wrong. Did she not owe everything to the 
Eternal purpose, which never fails? 

She recalled what the doctor had said about 
taking Gwennie to his lodge in the Adirondacks, 
after the child had regained its strength. 

The possibilities of this seemed to refresh her. 
She looked more hopeful now, but through a mist 
of gathering tears. She drew forth the tiny silver 
crucifix, the emblem of supreme sacrifice, and 
kissed it reverently. 

Tom’s camp was deserted. The loggers had 
gone with the last drive, and only a few Indians 
remained behind. 

Tom sat alone in his cabin, broken in spirit, and 
seemingly powerless to help himself. Everything 
was at an end. Only a short time back and he 
had felt that all the world was his, and now he 
had none of it. He had been deprived of the 
only real happiness he had ever known. Once 
again he had been cheated. The only light that 
broke through the clearing into his sense of 
desolation was the vague hope contained in the 


THE DAWN 


309 


message that he had found pinned to the wall, 

. . till we meet again.” 

He sat before the dead ashes of logs, his head 
buried in his arms. All at once he became con¬ 
scious of someone else in the room; he heard his 
name called, very softly; “Tom!” 

He turned and saw a shadow in the doorway, a 
shadow which became very real as he gazed at it. 

“May I come in?” It was Anne’s voice. As 
he said nothing, she added: “I’m glad you waited 
for me. All the others seem to have gone.” 

At this he shot up from his chair like an 
arrow, and hurried to her side. She stood passive 
at his approach. 

“Godamighty, but I’ve been lonely without 
you, Woman!” he cried; “but I reckoned you’d 
come back to me.” 

Then he clasped her to him, and she seemed to 
melt into his encircling arms as if they had been 
a mould, and it was her—the Woman’s—resting 
place forever. 

Presently she began to slip away from him like 
the shadow of a cloud upon the earth. He begged 
her to stay; he was only partly conscious of what 
he was doing or saying. 

She had gone. His arms were empty. The 


310 


FIRES OF FATE 


loneliness of things oppressed him. As he stood 
in his cabin door he shook himself free from the 
shadows of a mad dream. 

Dawn was turning the lake into shimmering 
gold; all about him was the scent of green, grow¬ 
ing things. 

. . Till we meet again,” was the challenge 
of everything about him. 

The trail from his door shone yellow in the 
early glimmering light. Was it a road to follow? 


THE END 













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